


Same Ghost Every Night

by withthepilot



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Minor Violence, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-31
Updated: 2010-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-13 16:03:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/139100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthepilot/pseuds/withthepilot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>McCoy is thrown back in time to the year 2225 after a Romulan attack, injured and lacking any memory of the past five years of his life. He meets and befriends a young George Kirk, in the weeks before George plans to enlist in Starfleet. The crew searches for a way to harness the  Romulans' advanced time-travel technology and retrieve McCoy before he inadvertently jeopardizes the future of Earth and the Federation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Same Ghost Every Night

**Author's Note:**

> I look upon this story fondly as the little Big Bang that could, mostly penned in the space of a week and poked and prodded until it finally took shape. I can't express enough gratitude to starsandgraces, who cheerleaded me on through an eleventh-hour sinus infection and believed that I could pull off finishing this, even when I thought it was impossible. Not to mention her patient feedback through multiple plot, pairing, and trope changes as I tried to nail this sucker down. She even stuck around to beta at the end of it all. Thank you, dearest, for your unflagging support.
> 
> Thank you as well to gadgetorious for her astounding artwork and to loveflyfree for a beautifully crafted mix, "You're So Worthy, You Are."
> 
> Title comes from a song by Wolf Parade

_They drag him, drag him, drag into the black night  
Dropped from the great height_

 _It was strange  
Constant blue  
And the same ghost every night_

 _I go walking  
Just to find  
My own breath  
My own breath through the path_

 

Wolf Parade, "Same Ghost Every Night"

 

I.

The first thing McCoy sees when he pries open his eyes are the stars. They're beautiful, sprinkled all over a black sky like salt crystals scattered across a glossy tabletop. McCoy takes a moment to admire their glow, so far away, light years away from his reach here on the dusty ground.

The ground. McCoy shuts his eyes again when a sharp stabbing sensation reverberates suddenly between his temples. A wave of nausea roils like an angry ocean in the pit of his stomach. He turns onto his side and retches from the pain. The smell of his vomit mixed with the pungent dirt is awful; it singes the fine hairs inside his nostrils and leaves its putrid stain inside his lungs. McCoy grunts in frustration and tries to crawl in another direction but the throbbing inside his skull stops him, turns his muscles to solid sludge beneath his skin. He digs his fingers into a patch of grass and exhales shakily, his eyes watering.

Vague thoughts of survival training prickle the back of McCoy's mind but he can't remember what they are, only that he _should_ remember. He should call for help; he should find the nearest person here and beg to be taken to the closest hospital.

But where is _here_?

McCoy lies on the ground for a while, huddled into himself and shaking with the pain. He dares to peek out over the top of his forearm when he hears the distant sound of hurried footsteps, the soles of someone's boots kicking up the acrid dirt. McCoy lifts his head to get a better look and then reels from the sudden movement, his head aching more than ever. When the person arrives and crouches down beside McCoy, the agonizing buzz in McCoy's ears muddles all of the surrounding noises. He's positive that the person is speaking to him, so he grits his teeth and tries to focus.

"...got you good, didn't they?" McCoy hears. It's a man's voice. McCoy cracks one eye open long enough to see a flash of denim, long tapered fingers reaching out for him. Then those fingers sift into his hair, pushing it back from his forehead. It's not first aid by a long shot, but that gentle touch makes him feel infinitely better somehow. A hot rush of tears springs to McCoy's bloodshot eyes.

"Please," he rasps out, his throat dry. "My head..."

"I noticed," the man says. He laughs a little but even in this state, McCoy can hear the underlying dread in the man's tone of voice. Those long fingers find McCoy's waist, fumbling around and looking for something, maybe identification. McCoy opens his mouth to tell him his name when the man interrupts. "You're a doctor?"

 _Doctor_ , McCoy thinks blearily. _Am I?_ "Yeah...doctor, yeah."

"Looks like you came prepared with your own med kit." There's a tearing sound, two sides of a strip of Velcro being pulled apart, and then the man seems to fumble with what he finds in the kit. He laughs again and it sounds quiet, humble. "I know it doesn't seem like it, but I kinda know what I'm doing. Got a doctor or two in the family."

McCoy manages to nod despite the pain radiating through his skull. Considering that he can't tell his own ass from his elbow right now, he's not exactly in the right mind to judge this guy's medical expertise. "Do what you have to," he murmurs.

"All right," the man says. "I think this is the right one. Here goes nothing."

McCoy feels something cool press against his neck, followed by a brief pang that feels like a bite mark. He recognizes it instantly as some kind of hypospray. He remembers the feeling of the device vividly, both the sting of its delivery and the way it feels in the palm of his hand: sterile, cylindrical, and all business. He wonders vaguely how he managed to luck out and actually have a few on his person. McCoy looks up at the man, as if he can find some answers there, but all he sees in the pale blue eyes above him are concern and mutual confusion. The man glances between the hypo and McCoy's face and purses his lips with an assumed authority.

"I've got you," he says.

McCoy takes the words down with him into an overwhelming funnel of darkness.

*

He wakes to warm stripes of sunlight trailing over his body, divided by the horizontal window blinds above his bed.

No, not his bed. McCoy inhales deeply and finds that the smell of the sheets is foreign to him. They belong to a man, most certainly. He thinks of Jocelyn and her perfume, the allusion of gardenias swirling around her wherever she goes. McCoy would remember that scent instantly, but there's no Jocelyn here. It's just him and an empty bed, the sheets tangled in a pile by his bare feet.

McCoy tries to lift up onto his elbows and groans at an echo of pain. In an instant, he remembers it all: the darkness pierced by stars, the agonizing pain, the retching and the god-awful stink of his own vomit. And, at the tail end of it all, the man with the blue eyes who offered his help. McCoy reaches up to touch his forehead, and then looks at his hand for traces of blood. Nothing. He runs his fingers through his hair, along his scalp. Nothing still. He could have sworn he had some kind of a head wound. McCoy looks to a nearby clock and sees that it's mid-afternoon already. There are faint noises coming from another room, occasionally interrupted by something that sounds like an old-fashioned laugh track.

He freezes when another man enters the room and makes his way toward the bed. The stranger is dressed plainly in a thin, white T-shirt and blue jeans, and he runs his hand through his neat blond hair as he approaches. McCoy instinctively inches back on the bed and the movement causes the man to look up in surprise.

"Oh, you're awake," he observes. He blinks those crisp blue eyes that McCoy remembers so well. They're the color of some sort of paradise.

"Barely," McCoy says, his voice scratchy. He attempts to clear his throat and looks the man over. "This your bed?"

"Yeah. It's a little lumpy, I know. Keeps me from sleeping the day away, though." He smiles and reaches over, running a tricorder over McCoy's body. "I borrowed this from your med kit, by the way. You can have it back when I'm done."

"Done?" McCoy repeats. He looks to the tricorder. "That's mine?"

"Yep. You didn't have a regenerator on you, but I've got one of my own, lucky for you."

McCoy lies back on the bed and nods. The man's sassing him, he can tell, but he can't muster the will to be annoyed when the guy's taking care of him. The tricorder whirs and beeps and McCoy looks up. "Bad news?"

"Nah, you're stable." He flashes McCoy a quick smile. "Hope you don't mind that I dragged you over to my place. Not everyone likes waking up in a stranger's bed. I should have brought you back to your base, I guess."

McCoy coughs dryly and frowns. "What base?"

"Starfleet?" The man motions to the uniform draped over a nearby chair. "You're in medical, aren't you? I didn't think any of the ships were docked right now, but here you are in the flesh, proving me wrong."

McCoy chews on his lip and glances between the uniform— _his_ uniform—and the man, who's now perched on the edge of the bed. He nods in agreement, though he has no idea how he ended up here at all, let alone with Starfleet garb on his back. His logical side nags at him that it's memory loss, likely due to the nasty concussion that he can't remember getting. Yeah, definite memory loss. Still, McCoy's fingers curl and twist in the sheets at the thought of being out in space— _him_ , Leonard McCoy, adrift in the black sea of the universe, with his severe aviophobia and general distrust of every life form from here to the other end of the galaxy.

He thinks of Jocelyn again and feels distrust there, too. She hurt him somehow. He probably hurt her, too. He shuts his eyes briefly and wishes he could remember.

"Right," McCoy whispers. He takes a shaky breath. "Sorry if I seem, uh...far away. I'm not usually this slow on the uptake. The name's McCoy, Leonard McCoy."

The man grins. "Your head's still up in the stars, huh? I know how that feels. I'm George."

George shakes McCoy's hand and offers him a friendly grin. It's a bright, gregarious, blinding thing that brings McCoy back to his wandering thoughts of paradise. George is corn-fed and built solid, a fine dusting of blond hair peeking out from the low dip of his shirt collar. He has the beginnings of crow's feet at the corners of his sparkling eyes. McCoy takes a long look as he wraps his fingers tentatively around George's strong hand.

"You look familiar," he says. George lifts his eyebrows and shrugs.

"I wish I could say the same for you. But I don't think we've ever met."

"No, I don't think we have," McCoy says. He feigns an uncaring smile. The truth is that he doesn't remember either way, but for now, he'll keep that to himself.

*

George sips the vanilla milkshake that's placed in front of him and makes a pleased sound. He smiles bashfully to McCoy. "I know it seems silly—a grown man drinking a milkshake with dinner. But they make the best ones in town here."

"It looks good," McCoy says. He drinks from his mug of coffee, which tastes watered down as all get-out. He could do with a stiff drink of whiskey after the past twenty-odd hours. "I'm a chocolate man, myself."

"Ah, see, I'm allergic to chocolate. Not to mention a few other things." George shrugs and stirs his milkshake with his straw. "I do make exceptions for chocolate on special occasions because it's so good."

McCoy smirks and shakes his head. "Exceptions? And who takes you to the hospital after you make those exceptions?"

George grins at him. "I keep some spare hypos in my apartment. I'm not as foolhardy as all that, Len. Can I call you Len?"

"Yeah, Len's okay," McCoy says. He takes a moment to glance out the window. The sun's going down and he can see the first twinkles of stars again. It reminds him of Georgia, somewhat; the way you can see almost every heavenly body in the sky without the help of a telescope. But he's far from Georgia now. When McCoy asked, George informed him that they were in Iowa, some backwater town called Riverside, specifically. Not much to it besides some farms, watering holes, and a restaurant or two, from what he saw on the drive over to the diner.

McCoy feels itchy and out of place, not knowing much about where he is or how he got here. He's wearing a borrowed plaid shirt and blue jeans from George which reek of his smell, the one McCoy remembers so vividly from George's bed. It's awkward at best, but McCoy doesn't feel right wearing a Starfleet uniform out and about when he has no recollection of ever enlisting in Starfleet, let alone serving the Federation out in space. McCoy gave George an excuse, that he didn't want people asking him questions about his current mission. George nodded and looked horribly curious about what said mission was. To the man's credit, he didn't make a peep about it.

"So, I can guess that you're not from around here," George says, interrupting McCoy's thoughts. "Judging by the way that you seem to have no idea where we are."

McCoy laughs faintly. "Clever. Yeah, I'm farther down south. Georgia, specifically. Grew up there, then I went to school in Ole Miss, where I met my wife, and we moved back to Georgia again after that."

"Wife, huh?" George sips his drink and angles his chin toward McCoy's hands stacked on the table, all fingers bare and ring-less. "I didn't see a ring."

McCoy looks down at his naked ring finger and frowns. "Divorced," he says, automatically. "Messy ordeal." He licks his lips, racking his brain for the words that will divert George's attention away from details. "Don't really want to get into it, if you don't mind."

"Yeah, no. Of course not." George licks his lips and waves a hand. "Your private life is private. Plus, we barely know each other."

"Right," McCoy says. He nods blankly, finding himself a bit stuck on the lip-licking he just saw. Something about that seems weirdly familiar, too. He lifts the rim of his mug to his mouth and nods. "Appreciate it."

There's an awkward silence for a minute or so. George appears extremely interested in the patterns the end of his straw makes on the surface of his milkshake, while McCoy distracts himself with stacking old-fashioned sugar packets into neat piles. Their server, Carla, strolls by their table to tell them that their food will be out shortly. She throws a wink over her shoulder at McCoy as she passes by. McCoy blinks, startled by the attention, and George laughs loudly.

"Don't look so scared. Carla's just a flirt. She's on a first-name basis with every man in town, so it's no surprise that she'd be intrigued by a handsome stranger."

McCoy ducks his head at the use of the word _handsome_ and diverts his eyes toward the rest of the diner. "All the servers here are nice to look at, I'll admit," he observes. He rests his gaze on a striking blond woman chatting with a patron by the counter. Her hair is pulled back into a messy bun and her eyes are blue, though a much darker blue than George's. "She'd give Carla a run for her money."

George looks to the counter and smiles with a fond expression that McCoy would know anywhere. He's pretty sure he used to give Jocelyn dopey gazes like that across the cafeteria back at Ole Miss, back when he was in the business of being dopey. "That's Winona. She's just working here for the summer to make some cash. Then she's got plans to enlist in Starfleet."

"Good luck to her," McCoy snorts. He realizes what he's said a moment too late. Luckily, George takes it in stride, laughing his carefree laugh.

"I guess you'd know the trials and tribulations best, huh?" George nudges McCoy's leg under the table. "You should go talk to her. I'm sure she'd be honored to speak to a genuine Starfleet officer. A lieutenant commander, no less," he adds. Then he smiles shyly. "I was checking out your uniform earlier."

Lieutenant commander? Him? "Yeah, right," McCoy scoffs, trying to change the subject. "You'd kill me in my sleep. I saw the way you looked at her."

George gives Winona one last lingering look and then turns back to McCoy with a shrug. "She could do a lot better than this guy," he says.

Just then, Clara comes by with their cheeseburgers and fries, and the smell of all that greasy food reminds McCoy of just how hungry he is.

"Here you go, boys," she says. She tosses McCoy an impish smile. "New in town, huh? Where'd you find this one, Georgie? I'm jealous." She wipes her hands on her apron and then points out their matching plaid button-down shirts. "He even dresses like you."

George gives Clara an admonishing look, though some color rises quickly to his cheeks. "He's a friend," he explains. "Just passing through."

"If you say so." Clara turns back to McCoy and smiles winsomely. "This is all home-cooked, you know. None of that replicated business here."

"Looks great," McCoy says. He smiles faintly and picks up his fork. "Thank you."

"Polite, too." She pats the edge of the table. "Let me know if you need anything, Georgie. You too, handsome."

Clara sashays away, her hips swishing as she walks. George gives McCoy a knowing smirk and McCoy avoids his stare, arranging onions and condiments on the open face of his cheeseburger. He covers it with the top of the bun and picks it up for a large bite.

"Good burger," McCoy mumbles, around a mouthful of bread and meat. Across from him, George laughs silently, his shoulders shaking with it. His smile is like sunshine, radiant and infectious.

"I hope you need a place to stay, Leonard McCoy," George says, "because this is more entertainment than I've had in a long time."

McCoy pops a French fry into his mouth and licks the excess ketchup from his thumb. "As a matter of fact, you're in luck," he drawls.

*

They spend the next few days not doing much of anything. McCoy tries to insist on sleeping on the couch but George won't hear of it, so they share his lumpy bed and McCoy feels bad for being a blanket hog. Sometimes one of them cooks—and McCoy is relieved that he remembers all of his family recipes, as he doesn't know just what he'd do if he didn't—and sometimes they go out to the diner, where Clara flirts shamelessly with them and Winona continues to look regal and unapproachable in her classic beauty, out of earshot and out of reach.

George doesn't have a nine to five. He goes to his family farm for a few hours every morning, where he does some sort of manual labor that he doesn't go into detail about. McCoy waits until George is gone and then looks up medical journals on George's PADD, reading to pass the time. He gets a strange feeling of déjà vu as he goes through them. It seems as though they're full of recycled information, things he already knows. They're all marked as brand new publications, though, cutting-edge research that McCoy couldn't possibly have learned before, so he dismisses the notion and keeps reading voraciously. When George comes back from the farm, they wrangle up food and watch holovids in the living room until they're too tired to keep their eyes open.

It's easygoing and it's relaxing, but McCoy can't shake his troubled feeling, the nagging thought that he doesn't belong. He doesn't know why he's here in Iowa, so far away from his wife and daughter. He has no idea how he found his way into Starfleet, considering how the very thought of space travel shakes him to his very core. He can barely force himself onto an airplane or shuttle ride. Jocelyn's always teased him for it, too. McCoy finds himself wondering if he's some sort of spy or secret operative; if he's meant to be on a covert mission and he can't remember because of his head injury. Maybe someone didn't want McCoy to remember and saw to it that he didn't. It could explain his missing wedding ring, too. If he's on a mission for Starfleet, maybe he's not supposed to wear it. McCoy gazes at his bare hand and can't help but ask himself if he was ever married at all, if he's simply imagining the whole thing—Jocelyn, Joanna, all of it.

When he's not thinking everything to death, McCoy reads his seemingly outdated journals and lightly smacks his head against the wall, willing himself to remember something, _anything_.

One afternoon, George comes back to the apartment with a bottle of aged bourbon. He waves it in McCoy's direction with a mischievous smile. McCoy nearly drops the PADD in his hands at the beautiful sight of it.

"How'd you—"

"I heard you muttering the other night about how you could use a drink of bourbon." George walks into the kitchen, the slight heels of his boots making noise as they tread over the old hardwood flooring. The sleeves of his denim shirt are pushed up to his elbows. McCoy's eyes drift from the bottle of bourbon to the flexing muscles of George's forearms as he pulls tumblers from a cabinet. He can't remember the last time he found himself unable to look away from a man. "Took this from my dad's stash over at the farm," George says. "Tiberius is more of a gin man, anyway. He won't miss it."

"Tiberius, huh?" McCoy tests the weight of the name on his tongue. It's hefty with the history of a distant era. "Like the emperor."

"Yeah. Terrible name. Glad I got something simple, at least." George ambles over to McCoy's perch on the couch and hands him one of the tumblers, filled about a quarter of the way with bourbon. "There you go. Something to take the edge off."

McCoy barks out a laugh and sniffs at the dark liquid, then takes a healthy swallow. It slides sweetly down his throat with a faint burn that sends a shiver through him. "That's good," he says. He watches as George tries the bourbon as well, his Adam's apple bobbing slowly with the flow of it. McCoy touches the cool rim of his tumbler to his lips, muffling his voice as he speaks. "You got plans tonight, or...?"

"Isn't it plain to see that I never have plans?" George laughs faintly. "I'm hanging out here with you every night."

"You must have some friends around town."

George nods. "Buddies. Acquaintances. They're all off trying to get laid. Hanging out by the base to see if they can pick up a hot cadet or a homesick Andorian." He finishes off his bourbon with a soft gasp that sends a tingle through McCoy's blood. George reaches for the bottle and pours himself a refill. "Tonight, my only plan is to sit here and kill this bottle of bourbon with you."

"You're an ambitious man, George..." McCoy trails off, running his fingers idly along the bottom of his tumbler. "Shit. I don't even know your surname."

"It's not that important, is it?" George smiles and leans close, pouring more bourbon out for McCoy. "All right, fine. It's Kirk."

"Kirk," McCoy repeats. "Got it." He looks into George's eyes as he starts on his second drink and tucks himself further into the enveloping cushions of the sofa.

*

At some point, George suggests they finish off the bottle in bed. By the time they get down to the dregs of the bourbon, McCoy is grateful for the change in location, seeing as how he doesn't think he could move if he tried. The sun is all but gone from the Iowa sky and the bedroom is filled with a dim, tenuous light, everything bathed in a faint wash of dusky pink and gold.

McCoy lies on his back and blinks slowly up at the ceiling. He knows he should move onto his stomach or side so he doesn't end up choking on his own sick, but he can't be bothered to care. George lies on his side next to him, facing McCoy. He's got his drink clutched in one hand and his eyes are closed. McCoy listens to him breathe for a while and then peers over at him when he thinks George is asleep. He's a beautiful man, George, all lean limbs and chiseled attributes, casting shadows along his skin. McCoy can't help but wonder if he's chiseled like that all over.

He realizes he's staring when George blinks his startlingly blue eyes open and looks back at him. McCoy sucks in a small breath but doesn't turn away.

"Thought you were sleepin'," he slurs.

"Nah." George smiles lazily and looks to the tumbler in his hand. "Hey, Len. Can I take a photo of us?"

"Photo?" McCoy repeats, frowning. "Now?"

"Yeah." George reaches under the bed and somehow manages not to fall off. He comes back with a centuries-old camera, the type that they used back around the turn of the millennium. "You look kind of cute like this, all drunk and frumpy."

"Did you just call me _frumpy_?" McCoy grouses. George laughs and lies back beside McCoy, holding the camera up so the lens points toward them.

"Yes. Now be quiet and smile for once, Len."

To his credit, McCoy thinks, he does try. It's more than he would do for most. "Where'd you get that?" he asks, as George shifts to put the camera away again.

"Family heirloom. Passed down through the generations. I'm a bit of a sucker for stuff like that." George rolls onto his side, facing McCoy, and he lets a few moments of silence pass. "Hey, Len," he begins again. "Can I tell you something? S'kind of a secret."

"Yeah, George. Go ahead."

Blue eyes squint as a fresh smile takes over George's face. "I'm thinkin' of joinin' up with Starfleet," he whispers.

McCoy lifts his head quickly and _damn_ , that's some dizzying stuff. He feels like his eyes are bulging out of his head but he can't stop the sudden panic that races through him. "Are you crazy?" he blurts. His voice practically echoes off the walls of the dimly lit room. "Is this about that waitress?"

"No...'course not," George says. He shifts to lift up onto his elbows and seems to share in the difficulty of moving after so much bourbon. "I told you, she won't give me the time of day anyway. I mean...maybe she would if I were in Starfleet, but..."

"Oh, for Christ's fuckin' sake," McCoy grunts. He runs a hand over his face roughly. "Don't bullshit me here, kid. I can hear the lovesick puppy you've got working behind the control panel in that fool head of yours."

George scowls at him, though it's far cuter than it is menacing. "I'm not a kid, McCoy. I'm already nineteen, and—"

"Oh, good, you're _nineteen_ ," McCoy mocks. He shakes his head dismissively. "You're a goddamn _kid_ ," he spits, "and you don't know the first thing about space travel and how fuckin' dangerous it is. Odds are good that you could die just on the goddamn shuttle over to the academy. And even if you make it, then what? Four years of dealing with decorated assholes with sticks up their asses telling you what to do and how to think, all so they can launch your sorry ass out into the goddamn void, where you'll prob'ly end up as kibble for roving packs of extrater—extraterrets—alien fuckers?"

George looks at McCoy, wide-eyed. Then he lets out a nervous giggle and makes a show of rolling his eyes. "Okay, next time we go easy on the bourbon. Got it."

"Damn it, George! I know what I'm talking about here, okay?" And McCoy doesn't, not really, but hell, he's got the uniform, so he can pretend it comes with a modicum of authority on the subject matter. "Listen: You're a good kid and I like you. A _smart_ kid, who can do plenty of good right here on Earth, all right? So excuse me for not fawning all over you here, but I'm really not of the mind to just stand by while you sign over your life to these goddamn _space cowboys_ , just because you woke up one day and decided to let your dick make all your goddamn decisions for you."

McCoy takes a moment to catch his breath and watches as George's expression shifts from annoyance to surprise, and then soft amusement.

"You like me?" he asks, smiling with one corner of his mouth.

"Oh, Jesus," McCoy groans. He drops his head back to his pillow and speaks without thinking. "I swear you Kirks have a one-track mind."

George sits up and looks confused as he finishes what's left of his drink and sets it aside on the nightstand. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asks.

"Huh?" McCoy blinks and then rubs at his temple. He feels the start of a headache coming on. "I don't know," he admits. "Never mind."

"Head hurts, huh?" George peers down at him in concern, frowning. "See, I'm not as smart as all that. I couldn't even fix you well enough to get rid of the pain from your injury. Shows how much you know, McCoy."

McCoy shuts his eyes and huffs, somehow finding the strength to roll onto his stomach. "Stop being so goddamn self-deprecating all the time, George. It's not as charming as you think it is. You're sharp and you know it, so just shut up already."

"Look, Len," George begins to say. Then he laughs again and shakes his head tiredly, going back to a reclining position on the mattress. McCoy turns his head and silently appreciates the handsome lines of George's face as he speaks frankly. "I appreciate the concerned, drunken rant; I really do. But you see what my life is like. I wake up every day, I eat breakfast, I go to the farm. I milk cows and stack hay bales. I come back here smelling like manure most days. Then I eat again, drink beer, and watch vids. And that's it." George licks his lips slowly and sighs. "Sure, it'd thrill my family if I stuck around these parts and worked on the farm forever. The whole damn thing could be mine someday. It _will_ be mine. But why should I stay? I mean, the whole damn universe is at my fingertips, Len. Starfleet's all about adventure, exploration..."

"And death," McCoy mutters into his pillow. "Lest you forget. I know it's prob'ly not in the brochure, but..."

"Big deal," George sighs. "I could get struck by lightning tomorrow, while I'm busy pulling up carrots from the ground." He scratches idly at his chest and looks at McCoy. His eyes appear limpid. "I thought you would understand. There's got to be a reason that you joined Starfleet."

"Fuck. George..." McCoy exhales shakily, his mind muddled with fear and paranoia and the fermenting buzz of the bourbon. It occurs to him suddenly that it's time to tell George the whole truth. He needs to trust this man, the only person McCoy knows in this strange place. "If there is, I don't know it. I'll level with you, all right? I don't remember even _being_ in Starfleet. I'm not docked or on shore leave. I mean...maybe I am, but I've got no goddamn clue about it." McCoy holds onto his pillow and struggles to speak against the knot forming in his throat. "If it weren't for the...the goddamn uniform and the equipment, I wouldn't even believe that I ever enlisted. I _hate_ to fly, the very _concept_ of space travel scares me shitless... The whole damn thing doesn't make any sense. I'm a goddamn Starfleet _officer_ and I can't remember one fuckin' second of it. I feel like I've lost years off my life, here."

George goes quiet and remains completely still beside McCoy on the bed. Then he lightly touches McCoy's shoulder and smoothes a steady hand down the curve of his spine. McCoy is instantly reminded of the way George tucked his sweaty, blood-matted hair back when he found McCoy alone and shuddering on the ground, a few weeks back. He remembers how instantly comforted he felt. He shivers and shifts a bit closer.

"I knew you had some memory loss," George whispers. "Seeing as how you didn't even know where you were when I found you. But I didn't know it was that bad. I'll take you to a hospital in the morning, first thing. Okay, Len?"

McCoy makes a derisive sound. "No doctors. Don't trust 'em," he mutters.

George rolls his eyes. "Sure. A doctor who doesn't trust doctors. Because that makes sense."

"It'll come back to me."

"What if it doesn't?" George heaves a sigh and the look he gives McCoy is a blend of skepticism and fondness. The bottom of McCoy's stomach drops in response. "Maybe you were right," George murmurs. "Maybe you showing up here is a sign that I should stick around."

"I don't believe in fate," McCoy whispers.

"Yeah, me neither. But you being here...something about it doesn't sit right. It doesn't feel like an accident." George purses his lips and squints. "Do I sound drunk and crazy?"

McCoy laughs into his pillow sharply. "You're asking _me_?"

"Looks like. So I must be drunk and crazy. At least one of the two."

George smirks and curls close to McCoy, draping an arm over his back protectively and resting his mouth mere centimeters from McCoy's ear. He whispers so softly that his voice nearly absorbs into the static that swiftly creeps into McCoy's head, taking over everything.

"Don't worry, Len," George says. "I know you need me. I'll take care of you."

McCoy's eyes fall shut. He wants to push the static away, wants to hear every sound that passes from George's parted lips. For all he knows, the universe could be speaking to him in just this way, whispering secrets to McCoy about why he's here, in this lonely corner of the universe. But even if the universe is staying mum—even if it's simply George's shallow breaths that McCoy hears, meaningless and warm against his skin—right now it's more than enough.

 

II.

It takes just over four standard weeks for Pavel to develop a plan to rescue Doctor McCoy.

*

Hikaru spends the majority of that time trying to distract Jim from his anguish over the entire ordeal. He takes him to the ship's bar for drinks upon drinks, works out and spars with Jim to help him get out his aggressions. Hikaru can tell that whatever Jim is doing in the quarters he normally shares with McCoy, it certainly isn't sleeping. Jim walks around the ship now with heavy footfalls and tired bags under his eyes, his focus not nearly as sharp as the crew is used to seeing from him. McCoy would surely berate him for it, were he around.

Meanwhile, Hikaru can only stew over his own impotence. He wishes he could help in a manner that's not equivalent to dangling something shiny in front of Jim's face when he gets sad. The man's lost his partner, after all. He either needs closure or a miracle.

Hikaru doesn't see much of Pavel during that time, considering that he's working with Spock and Scotty practically day and night, to not only figure out where McCoy went but how to retrieve him—that is, _if_ they can retrieve him. It's possible that Pavel is the only one who hates to see their captain in pain more than Hikaru, considering his relative hero worship for the guy. Hikaru spends as much time as he can every day with Jim, when he's not on duty, then returns to his quarters for fitful sleep, plagued most nights by recurring dreams. Pavel eventually shows up in the middle of the night, bedraggled and exhausted from hours of nonstop research, only to wake up mere hours later for alpha shift on the bridge.

After a few weeks of this, Starfleet insists that Jim is wasting too much of the _Enterprise_ 's time and resources on finding McCoy. The higher-ups demand that Doctor M'Benga take over the role of chief medical officer, and when he refuses initially, they threaten to transfer him to a different ship. Even Admiral Pike can't do much to sway the consensus, try as he might to make his fellow commanding officers understand that the _Enterprise_ crew is of a different breed than most—loyal, companionable, determined. A true family.

Jim is the one who finally convinces M'Benga to accept the position, and on the same day—practically in the same breath—he asks to be removed from duty. Hikaru turns swiftly in his chair behind the helm when he hears Jim utter the words.

"Sir, with all due respect—"

"Lieutenant, don't start," Jim warns, looking away from him. M'Benga stands stiffly beside the captain. His expression is conflicted as he looks between the two bridge officers.

Hikaru rises from his chair. "Permission to speak freely."

"Permission _not_ granted."

"Jim, come on! You can't let them push you around like this! You _know_ what's best for this ship, you can't—"

"Mr. Sulu," Jim says through gritted teeth, taking a step forward. "You're completely out of order. Now sit down before I embarrass you in front of your fellow bridge crew."

Hikaru feels his face blanch but he hesitates before sitting down. He knows Pavel is staring at him from the other end of the helm, likely peering at him with his big, saucer eyes and pursed, anxious lips, the way he always does when something has gone awry. Hikaru takes a deep breath and tries to focus on pulling himself together. He meets Jim's gaze and for a moment, he sees a hint of an apology there. Then it's quickly replaced by the usual fatigue and a new wash of hopelessness. It's as good as a knife in Hikaru's gut. He swears to himself right then and there that he never wants to see that look in Jim's eyes again.

"Doctor M'Benga, I'm removing myself from active duty," Jim says quietly. The entire bridge crew sits frozen in silence, waiting for his next words. "Until further notice, I cannot perform to the best of my ability in the role of captain. I'm...well." A faint laugh, tinged with grief. "Isn't it obvious? I'm emotionally compromised. Spock...you're in command. Go get 'em, tiger."

Jim and M'Benga walk off the bridge together, likely to fill out the requisite forms for the temporary shift in power. Everything remains deathly quiet and still, save for the mechanical beeps of the equipment. Spock sits at his station, looking dazed, until he stands and relocates to the captain's chair. Hikaru can't help but frown distastefully. He likes Spock and all, and the sight of him sitting in the chair doesn't exactly strike Hikaru as wrong. But it's also not right. Even Uhura appears unnerved by the entire thing.

"Lieutenant Sulu," Spock says, tearing him away from his train of thought. "Do you require a period of time spent off-duty in order to regain your composure?"

"I'm fine," Hikaru replies quietly. "Captain," he adds, a moment later.

Spock nods his understanding and begins to brief the bridge crew on this change in leadership. Hikaru tries to focus but finds his eyes glazing over as he stares down at the controls and keypads he knows so well. For a moment, they seem completely foreign. He looks up when Pavel leans close and whispers to him.

"Hikaru," he says. He touches Hikaru's wrist gently. "You should understand. The captain is being brave by stepping down. He cannot lead us right now. It is better this way."

Hikaru winces and looks away. He tends to agree with Pavel on most matters concerning ship politics, but this is an exception.

"If Spock's busy playing captain, who's going to help you and Scotty figure out how to find McCoy?" he whispers back.

Chekov looks down at his console, his lashes drooping. "I don't know," he admits. "But we will keep trying."

*

That night, Hikaru dreams of the day McCoy disappeared. It's not the first time he replays the scene in his subconscious mind.

It happens very quickly, the way these things often do—it's almost comical, how little time passes between the beginning and end of the _Enterprise_ 's collective nightmare. A Romulan vessel intercepts and takes control of the ship, making quick work of the bridge's security crew. They identify themselves as Nero sympathizers, eager to take out the infamous Captain James T. Kirk and his first officer, Spock, who murdered their so-called "war hero."

It's a completely normal day on the _Enterprise_ before the intrusion. Hikaru banters with Pavel and Uhura as he works, and even Spock joins in their conversation now and then. Jim seems relaxed and happy, especially because McCoy has graced the bridge with his usual grouchy presence, complaining about some new sickbay regulation and rolling his eyes at just about everything Jim says. Jim never seems more content than when McCoy is bitching at him. Hikaru has never understood it, but he finds it's pretty cute to watch.

When the Romulans show up, they tear their way toward the bridge, killing who knows how many innocent crew members— _nine, Hikaru finds out later, nine of his friends and comrades_ —as they hunt for Jim and Spock. The pair is on the scene immediately, ready to defend the ship, phasers drawn. No one expects what their visitors have in store: a large, menacing device, all dangerous chrome, which the leader aims directly at Jim's head with little explanation as to why.

"James Tiberius Kirk," the Romulan hisses. "From this day forward, you will no longer interfere with the Romulans' plan to destroy the Federation and all of its planets. Not after we send you back to where you belong."

And then everything seems to happen at once. Jim draws his phaser just as the Romulan's finger curls over the trigger of the oversized weapon. Everyone gathered around the scene can see that Jim doesn't have the edge this time, that he won't be able to land the shot before the Romulan does, no chance in hell. In fact, the captain's going to get his head blown off if he doesn't move his ass. Then McCoy, who Hikaru has never seen willingly throw himself into the path of danger, leaps forward as if to push Jim out of harm's way. One of the other Romulans swings his arm in retaliation and slams a large phaser into McCoy's temple with such brute force that McCoy topples over like a fallen stack of bricks. His body careens right into the path of the unknown weapon's greenish ray. There's a bright light; a sudden flash that forces Hikaru to shield his eyes.

And then, just like that, he's gone. McCoy is _gone_.

"Bones!" Jim yells toward the vacated space where McCoy just stood, his straining voice an echo of the horror etched into his features. His skin is ghostly white, his eyes wide and terrified. He shouts himself hoarse. "BONES!"

Hikaru wakes with a loud gasp, Jim's screams still echoing in his ears. He clutches the bed sheets in tight fists and struggles to catch his breath. A light goes off in the bathroom and then Pavel's slim form appears in the doorway, clad only in boxer shorts as he approaches the bed. He's kneeling on the mattress in seconds, cupping Hikaru's face in his hands, kissing his nose and chin.

"What is it? Another bad dream?"

"Same dream," Hikaru whispers, his voice shaky. "Always the same. I—I don't think I'll ever get Jim's screaming out of my head. I mean, just the way he _sounded_..."

"Shh. I know, Hikaru." Pavel tilts his head sadly and brushes the pads of his thumbs over Hikaru's cheekbones, searching his face. "It was not real this time. This was just a dream."

Hikaru shakes his head bitterly, as much as Pavel's slackened grip will allow him. "But it did happen. McCoy is still gone and Jim is..." He pauses, not knowing what to say. It's a well-known fact around the ship that he and Jim are best friends. _Apparently, taking a nose dive off a drill platform is a surefire start to a beautiful friendship_ , McCoy once joked. Hikaru hasn't admitted it outright to Pavel just yet, but when Jim is lost, he feels lost, too. It's been that way from the very start: When they fall, they fall together. Hikaru chews on his bottom lip, fighting frustrated tears. "I should have just started firing. That standoff was complete bullshit. McCoy never should have been put in that position; I should've just gone in and—"

"And for what?" Pavel interrupts. "So the ray could have taken you away instead? Do you know what that would have done to me, Hikaru? Do you _know_?"

Hikaru nods faintly and swallows. "Probably exactly what it's doing to Jim."

"But a million times worse than this," Pavel sighs. "He is much stronger than me. I would probably...I don't know. Hide under this bed and cry."

"You wouldn't." Hikaru risks a wry smile. "You'd be doing exactly what you're doing now: killing yourself to find a solution."

"Yes, it's true." Pavel urges Hikaru to lie back on the mattress again and Hikaru acquiesces, making sure to pull his boyfriend down with him. He reaches up and runs his hands over Pavel's slight shoulders and down his toned arms, lightly dusted with fine, blond hair. Pavel just smiles at him, patient as always, though he must be tired, so goddamn tired. He kisses the bridge of Hikaru's nose and whispers. "I would tear the entire ship apart to find you," he says. "I would travel to every millimeter of the universe."

"Every millimeter?" Hikaru repeats, laughing fondly. "Very thorough, Pasha."

Pavel fits himself to Hikaru's body and they lie there like that for a while, basking in each other's warmth. They haven't had sex since McCoy disappeared but Hikaru can't bring himself to try when even the goddamn _air_ of the ship feels strange in his lungs. Pavel seems to understand and even if he doesn't, he's always too tired to convince Hikaru otherwise. Hikaru presses his nose to Pavel's curls, inhaling the familiar scent of him. He doesn't envy Jim his loss, that's true—but it's deeper than that. If Jim loves McCoy even half as much as Hikaru loves Pavel, then Hikaru can only despair for him.

"Hikaru," Pavel murmurs sleepily into Hikaru's neck. "I promise I will find him for you."

He smiles slightly and shuts his eyes. "You mean for Jim." Pavel makes an affirmative sound.

"You," he repeats, already halfway asleep.

*

Alpha shift on the bridge continues to feel strange and sterile without Jim and his silly jokes, his mindless banter and inappropriate comments. Spock commands an equal amount of respect from the crew as captain, but it's of a different quality. Everyone speaks to Spock with unwavering rigidity and the more timid ensigns look as though they might fall apart from nerves when Spock focuses his attention on them. Even Pavel, who maintains a rather friendly relationship with Spock as a fellow scientist, noticeably shrinks down in his chair when Spock orders him to do something.

Uhura joins Hikaru for dinner in the cafeteria one evening, sitting down across from him with a frustrated sigh.

"This is terrible," she proclaims.

"Tell me about it," Hikaru replies, chewing his pasta with one side of his mouth.

"I mean, I love Spock to death; you know I do." Uhura shakes her head, blowing on a spoonful of curry. "But he is _not_ meant to be a captain. Yes, he's the smartest man I've ever known, but being on that bridge with him in charge is just..."

Hikaru swallows his mouthful. "Wrong."

"Yes." Uhura frowns before she slips her spoon into her mouth, chewing and swallowing delicately. "I hate to say it, but I think I actually miss Jim trying to look up my skirt."

"Wow," he says, snorting. "I know you don't really mean that, but I'm never going to let you forget that you said it."

She gives him a wry smile, cocking an elegant eyebrow. "You know what I mean, Hikaru."

He nods faintly. He knows _exactly_ what Uhura means. She's not their communications expert for nothing.

"Pavel's working hard on a way to find McCoy. I have faith in him. He'll find McCoy and Jim will return to duty and it'll all go back to normal."

"It's been a long time," Uhura says softly. "Starfleet is going to declare him deceased soon, even if Jim doesn't want them to."

Hikaru purses his lips and stares down at his food. A funeral for McCoy is the last thing anyone wants, especially him. In his heart of hearts, he knows it'll be the death of Jim, too, and the death of life as they all know it aboard the _Enterprise_. He pushes his pasta around his plate and forgets to respond to Uhura. He almost forgets she's even there, until she speaks up again.

"Where is Pavel, anyway?" she asks.

"Doing research."

Uhura blinks and sets her spoon down as she glances around the mess hall. "He doesn't take breaks to eat dinner?"

Hikaru shrugs. "He replicates something, I think."

"Hikaru," she says sternly, pointing her spoon in his direction. "You make sure that boy doesn't kill himself. The last thing we all need is you _and_ Jim walking around this place like ghosts."

But Hikaru feels exactly like a ghost as he all but floats to Jim's quarters after dinner, as if a magnet is leading him there. Jim looks haggard when he comes to the door, even though he's been away from the bridge and all the usual headaches of captaincy. He's dressed in a plain, long-sleeved black shirt and regulation black pants, and it looks like he hasn't shaved in a couple of days. Stubble isn't the best look on Jim, but Hikaru's certainly not going to call him on it. His breath smells of liquor and Hikaru recognizes it as the bourbon that McCoy favors, the one that the doctor drinks at nearly every party when everyone else is downing vodka and complicated cocktails like Cardassian Sunrises.

They stare at each other for a few seconds and then Hikaru shifts on his feet, clears his throat.

"He's not going to be happy when he comes back and finds that you drank all his liquor, you know."

Jim laughs sharply and wags a finger at him. "That's what I like about you, H. Your sunny optimism." He steps back to let Hikaru into his quarters. "Come on in and help me finish it, will ya?"

The room doesn't smell too great, Hikaru has to admit. Jim looks wan and thin, his face drawn. He didn't look so hot on the bridge the other day either, but Hikaru is amazed by how his appearance has already worsened. Jim's bridge shift was likely the only thing keeping his spirits up. Hikaru's willing to bet that Jim's been avoiding food, maybe getting sick and not cleaning up after himself. He's probably also avoiding M'Benga and sickbay, and ignoring the mandatory order he received, to attend counseling sessions.

"How was counseling today?" Hikaru dares to ask. Jim scoffs and sits on the edge of the bed, picking up a glass full of liquor. Well, at least he's not drinking from the bottle.

"Fuck that," Jim says. "It's _grief_ counseling. Like, they want me to act like Bones is dead. But he's _not_. So, y'know. Who cares? Fuck it." He takes a long swallow of the bourbon. "Goddamn, this stuff is awful. I dunno how Bones stands it."

Hikaru chuckles faintly, scuffing his foot on the floor. "He's an old man before his time," he says. Jim looks up and gives him a slight smile that Hikaru can swear looks grateful.

"C'mere, Hikaru. Seriously. Come over here."

He doesn't hesitate before he heads over to Jim's bed—well, Jim and McCoy's bed. Hikaru notices before he sits that the mattress is strewn with clothes, including a blue science uniform top that could only belong to McCoy. He wonders how long Jim's been sleeping like this, surrounded by a pile of McCoy's things, likely only able to drift off every night with a good amount of alcohol in his system and the lingering scent of McCoy in his nostrils. Hikaru exhales as he sits and watches Jim attempt clumsily to pour out a second glass of bourbon. He's not a fan of the stuff, either. Still, he reaches out and holds the glass steady for Jim, so he can concentrate on pouring.

"To Bones," Jim says when he's done. Hikaru nods and lifts his glass.

"To Bones."

"Yeah," Jim murmurs. He licks his lips before downing the rest of his drink in one go, his cheeks bulging with the liquid. He swallows with a wince and then laughs, rubbing Hikaru's shoulder. "Hey, you know why you're great?"

"Sunny optimism, right? That'd better show up on my annual review."

Jim snorts and shakes his head slowly. "Yeah, but, it's like... You're the only person who still talks about him in the present tense."

"If you believe he's alive, I do, too," Hikaru says quietly. Jim looks at him and squints, his face falling.

"That's the thing, H. I don't know _why_ I do. I just feel like... I mean, if Bones were really gone...I don't know. I would _feel_ it. Y'know? In my bones." Jim rubs at his eyes and laughs awkwardly. Hikaru snorts and hazards a small smile.

"Terrible joke. But yeah. I know."

Jim sighs. "I know you know. Oh, yeah, and they want me to do a memorial," he mutters. "I just... I just can't. Not until somebody shows me the proof."

"Then you shouldn't." Hikaru takes a sip of his bourbon and grimaces. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Personally, I'd love to see him again, just so I can tell him what shitty taste in liquor he has."

"Right?" Jim says, laughing tiredly. He hangs his head forward, leaning his elbows on his knees as he continues to drink. "Fuck him for making us drink this shit."

"Asshole," Hikaru agrees. He drapes an arm over Jim's back and leans close to him as he forces the rest down.

After Jim falls asleep, Hikaru stumbles his way back to his quarters and is both surprised and relieved to find Pavel already in bed. Hikaru falls in beside him, fully clothed, and curls himself against Pavel's side. He sighs when he feels Pavel's arm slip around his middle.

"You were drinking," Pavel mumbles into his shoulder blade. Hikaru shuts his eyes and nods faintly. "Something foul."

"Mmm. With Jim."

"Ah." Pavel presses a soft kiss to the back of Hikaru's neck and Hikaru feels his body give into sleep, all his racing thoughts of Jim and McCoy and Spock slowing to a sluggish grind. He almost doesn't hear it when Pavel whispers to him. "Hikaru, I have a secret I want to tell you. Are you asleep?"

"Mmhmm."

"Good." He pauses and whispers into the warm skin just beneath Hikaru's ear. "I think I have found him."

In the morning, Hikaru can't recall if Pavel's words were real or part of a dream. And he's too afraid to ask.

*

Two days later, Hikaru finds himself summoned for a debriefing in the captain's ready room. He feels instantly anxious, his pulse thrumming rapidly in his ears and under the thin skin of his wrists as he walks through the ship's corridors, posture clean and straight. He doesn't want to dare to believe that something good has happened, that there's been a breakthrough of some sort. Pavel hasn't breathed a word about anything aside from the small, hopeful whisper that Hikaru still thinks must have sprung from his own subconscious.

When Hikaru arrives, he sees a host of familiar faces already seated in the room: Pavel, Scotty, Uhura, Gaila. He's taken aback to see Spock sitting primly at the head of the table. Spock stands and nods his welcome.

"Lieutenant Sulu," he says. "I understand that you have not grown accustomed to my assumption of the captain's role."

"No, it's not..." Hikaru tries to laugh it off, shaking his head. "I know. You're the captain. I know."

Spock tilts his head. "If you are experiencing embarrassment, it is unnecessary. I, too, acknowledge the peculiarity of the situation."

Hikaru doesn't quite know how to respond, so he simply nods and lowers himself into an empty chair. There's one last seat remaining, and it's obviously reserved for Jim. And not thirty seconds later does Jim come barreling into the room, the door sliding shut behind him as he looks around with wild eyes. He looks more than a bit hung over, his hair disheveled, but Hikaru can tell that he tried to pull himself together somewhat for this.

"What's going on?" he asks immediately. "You found him? Tell me you found him."

"Jim, please sit," Spock merely says. Jim looks wary but he does as Spock says, sitting down and clasping his hands together on the table. He's all nervous energy, leaning forward as though he'll miss something if he dares to relax.

"Okay," he says, deferring to Spock. "Come on. Let's hear it."

Spock nods and rises smoothly from his chair. "As you are all aware, Starfleet issued a direct order, upon my ascendancy to captain's rank, dictating that the _Enterprise_ crew terminate all investigation into the disappearance of Doctor McCoy. I evaluated the merit of this order personally, taking the recent decline of crew morale into consideration, as well as the relative mystery surrounding the disappearance. My resulting decision has been to eschew the order and allow Ensign Chekov and Lieutenant Commander Scott to continue their research, with the help of Lieutenant Gaila."

Hikaru watches as all three aforementioned people turn and smile reassuringly to Jim. Gaila has a certain knowing sparkle in her eyes that gives Hikaru a faint glimmer of hope.

"It appears," Spock continues, "based on the findings of the research team, that there is a strong possibility that Doctor McCoy is alive."

"Oh, my god," Jim whispers. Hikaru notes that some of the tension seems to fly out from Jim's body. "How? Where did he go?"

Pavel opens his mouth to speak and then looks to Spock for permission, who nods his assent. "Thank you, Mr. Spo—ah, Captain, Captain Spock, sorry," he says, floundering.

Gaila giggles and Scotty and Uhura both let hints of smiles creep onto their faces. Spock looks about two seconds away from a decidedly non-Vulcan eye roll.

"Indeed," he says flatly.

"Okay. So." Pavel nervously looks down at the notes on his PADD and then continues. "Based on a battery of tests of the unknown Romulan weapon, and our interrogations of the men we captured after the ship invasion, we can surmise that this was not a firearm but some sort of...time-travel device."

"Time travel?" Hikaru repeats. He and Jim exchange a quick, surprised glance. "So they sent McCoy somewhere else in time?"

"Da," Chekov says, nodding again. He gestures as he speaks, getting excited about his findings in the way that Hikaru has always found adorable. "It seems that the Romulans have been studying time travel for years, and these Nero sympathizers harnessed the technology for the purpose of the invasion. The ray was meant for Captain Kirk only—the doctor was not meant to get in its way. Captain Spock learned from a prisoner that the Romulans researched Captain Kirk's family history." Chekov stops gesturing, then, and sighs sadly as he searches for his next words. "They wanted to send him back to his home in Iowa. In the standard year 2225."

Uhura leans forward. "What happened in 2225?"

"I am not sure of anything specifically," Chekov says. "But my research tells me this is the year Captain Kirk's father enlisted in Starfleet."

"My dad?" Jim whispers. He looks so far away, then, and Hikaru can practically see the gears turning in Jim's head as he tries to fit all the puzzle pieces together. Spock saves him the trouble.

"Jim, from what we have established, the Romulan intruders expected an outcome in which sending you to meet your father would alter the course of history—so that the James T. Kirk of this reality, who saved the Federation and saw to the defeat of Nero, would never be born."

The table falls silent as Jim processes this information, a pained expression marring his normally boyish features. Pavel bites his lip anxiously. Spock and Uhura exchange a look that appears meaningless, but Hikaru can spot the underlying sympathy in both of their eyes. As for him, he shuts his eyes and struggles to push down a blazing surge of anger—of contempt and utter rage for anyone who would dare sink to such disgusting levels of emotional manipulation. Everyone knows damn well that Jim would probably leap at the chance to meet his long lost father. But not like this. Hikaru ducks his head and grits his teeth, wills the dam not to break, and then—

"Fuckers," Scotty grumbles, shaking his head. "Absolute fucking _wankers_."

Somehow, that alleviates the tension in the room, just a bit. Jim offers them all a terse smile and runs his fingers through his hair apprehensively as he attempts to process the information he's been given.

"So...you're saying that Bones is with my dad. In the year 2225. Is that right?"

"Presumably, yes," Pavel says. "The time-travel device was broken in the melee on the bridge, but Mr. Scott and I were able to determine its mechanics after studying it for some time. We can safely say that the doctor was sent to the coordinates of Riverside, Iowa, in 2225. But..." He splays his hands and squints. "There is no way of knowing if the doctor has crossed paths with Mr. Kirk. In fact," Pavel says, pausing again, "there is no way to tell at all what has happened to the doctor upon his arrival in this time, unless someone is to go and retrieve him."

"I'll do it," Hikaru pipes up immediately. He blinks when he realizes what he's just said—that he's just volunteered to _go back in time_ —and that everyone else at the table is looking at him in shock. Pavel stares at him with wide, unflinching eyes. Hikaru is about to say something to Pavel when Gaila laughs brightly and distracts him.

"Sulu, we haven't even told you if that's possible yet."

"Of course it is," Jim says, flicking his hand. "You three are geniuses. Plus, I doubt you'd bring us all in here if there wasn't some kind of master plan." He looks at Hikaru and pats his arm. "Anyway, thanks, Sulu. But it doesn't matter, because I'm the one who's going."

"Jim, you—you can't," Hikaru says, shaking his head.

"That would be illogical," Spock chimes in. "As you have determined yourself, Jim, you are emotionally compromised in this situation. Sending you to the past to retrieve the doctor would be unwise, as we remain unaware of his current condition and your judgment upon arrival is likely to become impaired. The addition of your father as a new variable in this equation creates an even greater likelihood of a volatile outcome."

Jim stands abruptly, already on the verge of eruption. "Spock, there's no time for fucking logic right now, okay? We're talking about my dad and my... For god's sake, you just don't under—"

"As a fellow survivor of grievous tragedy, Jim, and as the child of a fallen parent, I _do_ comprehend the emotional...resonance of the scenario," Spock continues. His eyes flicker to Uhura briefly before he goes on. "And, indeed, were the situation reversed, and my own partner had suffered Doctor's McCoy's fate, I would seek to volunteer my services before all others." Spock folds his hands behind his back and rounds the table toward Jim. "We ourselves, however, all exist as the products of the unstable nature of time travel. We have seen all too clearly how the acts of one man can alter the course of the universe's history irreparably. Therefore," he says, pausing by Jim's side, "the logical course of action would be to send someone who has a greater probability of 'flying under the radar,' as you might say."

"Not to mention that the nasty buggers might have already gone back and booby-trapped the past somehow for you, Jim," Scotty adds, sneering. He looks around at the others when they fall silent and huffs. "Well, it's highly possible, don't you think?"

"Jim," Spock continues. His voice turns soft as he touches Jim's shoulder. "I understand your desire to lead this proposed mission, as its outcome holds great significance for you. However, I believe you would demonstrate a greater strength in this instance by trusting in your crew. I can assure you that not one of us would level judgment upon you for doing so."

A funny thing happens, then: The fight seems to go out of Jim as he looks at Spock, his shoulders sagging. From the faces of the others, they all expected Jim to rail against logic for the sake of McCoy and George Kirk. But Hikaru knows that Jim is a smart guy, probably the smartest guy he knows—save for Pavel—and part of that involves knowing when to step down. But even Spock looks a little shocked when Jim nods and leans over to clasp Hikaru's arm.

"Well, if there's anyone who's kick-ass at flying under the radar, it's Mr. Sulu, here," he says.

"Very well, then." Spock nods to both of them. "Lieutenant Sulu, I accept your request for assignment to this mission. You will be given one standard week to find and retrieve Doctor McCoy and bring him back with you to the current stardate. As the time-travel aspect renders this a highly unpredictable mission, you will be briefed by Lieutenant Commander Scott and Ensign—"

"I will go, too!" Pavel exclaims suddenly. Hikaru gapes at his boyfriend, standing at attention and looking as defiant as Hikaru has ever seen him.

"Pavel," he says, rather lamely. "You...you're not—"

"It is safer for a pair to go, to keep one another in check, so nothing is disturbed," he says, lifting his chin. "Also, I have a better understanding of the technology. It will be useful for me travel with you."

"Aye, plus the lad _did_ figure the whole thing out, almost single-handedly," Scotty adds. "He's been working day and night to get to the bottom of this, Mr. Spock. I reckon he deserves a commendation when this is all said and done."

"Indeed," Spock says. "Very well, Ensign Chekov. You will accompany Lieutenant Sulu on the mission. Prepare for joint briefing and be ready for travel at 0900 hours tomorrow. Dismissed."

Everyone starts to file out and Hikaru stares blankly at Pavel as he approaches. Jim intercepts them, squeezing both of their shoulders gratefully.

"You'll get him," he says, more of an affirmation to himself than anything. "Thanks."

"You'd do the same for us," Hikaru says, smiling thinly.

Jim gives Hikaru a light pat on the arm before he takes his leave. Hikaru turns back to Pavel, stepping back when Pavel points a long finger in his face. He looks furious, his eyebrows knitted together and his mouth drawn into an irritated, slanted line.

"You want to volunteer for crazy, dangerous missions?" he hisses. "Fine. This is your choice to make. But I will not sit idly by and wait for you, Hikaru. Do you understand this? Where you go, I go, too. And do not be foolish and think you can change my mind."

Hikaru swallows and nods, slightly shaken as he watches Pavel retreat from the room. He thinks of Uhura's words from the other day and takes some comfort in them. The last thing Hikaru wants, after all, is his Pavel curled up in a bed full of Hikaru's clothes, sleeping with the remnants of a ghost.

 

III.

When they rematerialize in 2225, Pavel takes one step forward and immediately steps in something smelly and squishy. He yelps and jumps back, trying to rub the smear of dog feces off the sole of his boot, back into the dirt. Hikaru just laughs, shaking his head at the sight.

"Oh, Jesus," he says, laughing harder now. "That could only happen to you, Pavel."

"It is not funny, Hikaru!" Pavel insists, his cheeks enflamed.

"Well, it's good luck, anyway."

Pavel makes a sour face. "Who says so?"

"It's an old belief. An old wives' tale, like," Hikaru says, shrugging. "It's good luck to step in dog shit."

"I have never heard of such a thing."

Pavel huffs and takes in their surroundings. Scotty's sent them to a remote area, and there are a few buildings scattered here and there but not much activity. In a way, it reminds Pavel of Russia: desolate and generally lacking in life, but warm instead of bitterly cold. He didn't know that America could be like this, too. San Francisco always seemed so busy and overcrowded. Pavel takes out his PADD, assessing their coordinates. He exhales when he realizes it worked. He and Hikaru just _traveled through time_.

"Well, the experiment worked. We are here," he says, breathlessly. He grins at Hikaru. "And I am starving."

"You're always starving," Hikaru teases. "I don't know where you put it all."

"I have not been eating much lately," Pavel sighs, shrugging. "But when I am as busy as I have been, I do not notice the time passing."

Hikaru smiles. "You have, you've been busting your ass on this. And, by the way—holy shit, it _worked_." He boggles at Pavel for show, then pulls Pavel close and kisses him. "You're a genius, Pasha, just like Jim said. You totally deserve that commendation Spock's going to give you."

Pavel laughs shortly. "Yes, well. I imagine I will only receive it if we successfully find and retrieve the doctor. Otherwise, no luck." He squints from the direct sunlight, which he can already feel baking his pale, winter-bred skin. "Riverside is a small town," Pavel says. "Little population. If it is like my hometown, then people will know where Mr. Kirk lives."

"I don't think it's a good idea to just go around asking people if they know George Kirk. Especially not while we're in uniform," Hikaru says, motioning to their attire. "Plus, we don't even know if McCoy is with him. We should probably use our credits to get a motel room and change into the clothes we brought."

"Yes, okay." Pavel starts to walk when Hikaru does, keeping his eyes peeled for anything that looks remotely like lodging. "I suppose we do have an entire week to find Doctor McCoy."

"Yeah, but we both know how short a week really is. The four weeks it took just to get us here might as well have been four days for me."

Pavel nods and thinks of their orders, as they were given this morning before he and Hikaru departed for the past. They have seven standard Earth days to find McCoy and deliver him back to the _Enterprise_ in the year 2260. Scotty and Gaila have rigged their tracking signal so that they'll return to the ship at that precise moment, on that exact day, whether they have McCoy with them or not. And because it's a covert operation, being carried out right under the Federation's nose without anyone's knowledge, there won't be any second chances should they lose track of McCoy or come up completely empty-handed. They're all putting their reputations and careers at risk, disobeying direct orders from above. But it's worth it when it comes to Kirk. Pavel barely slept last night, wondering what might happen if they couldn't find McCoy, or worse, if they found him dead. He still remembers the sickening blow to the head that McCoy took from one of those brutish Romulans. Sometimes, when Pavel closes his eyes, he envisions McCoy's decaying face, slack with death as it stares blankly up into the Iowa sky. He tries to put those thoughts out of his mind, but they always come back. They're like Hikaru's nightmares, in which he hears Jim screaming for a man plucked out of thin air; the ones that always wake him, hoarse and afraid.

Mostly, Pavel fears Captain Kirk's disappointment if they can't recover Doctor McCoy. He's a brave leader, Kirk, but there's only so much heartache one man can endure. Pavel fears Hikaru's disappointment, too, if he ends up failing his best friend. He looks over at Hikaru and silently curses him for being so loyal to Kirk, volunteering for this unprecedented time-travel mission as if it were as simple as doing a loop-dee-loop in a Starfleet shuttlecraft. But then again, Pavel doesn't know how Hikaru manages to do that, either. Hikaru can accomplish all sorts of feats that Pavel would never think twice of attempting; he's a pilot, after all, and it has always been impossible for him to keep his two feet planted on the ground.

This time, Pavel posed the challenge, practically handed Hikaru the controls. He knows he shouldn't be surprised that Hikaru reached out and grabbed them, that they're already in the midst of this flight.

Eventually, they find a motel and soon after, they obtain a decent room. Pavel sits on the bed and watches as Hikaru changes into his replicated clothes: a white T-shirt, jeans, and a denim jacket.

"This is too much denim," Pavel says, appraising the look. Hikaru laughs.

"What, you're the fashion police now?"

"I don't think so," Pavel says, smiling. It feels like he's stretching facial muscles that he hasn't used in weeks. "I have no plans to arrest you for your crimes."

Hikaru zips up his fly and grins. "Your outfit can't be any better. I saw the things you used to wear during off-hours at the academy."

"I picked very hip things! Captain Kirk advised me." Pavel opens his bag and takes out his own pair of jeans, along with a grey T-shirt and a leather jacket, laying them all on the bed. "See? Very classic."

"Wow, nice." Hikaru touches the jacket sleeve gently, running two fingers over the replicated leather. "Almost feels like the real thing. Put it on. Let's see it."

Pavel changes into the clothes and smirks at the look on Hikaru's face when the jacket slides on, a perfect fit. Hikaru adjusts the collar, his touch reverent.

"I think I like badass Pavel," he murmurs, his voice lowering to a near purr. Pavel shivers at the sound of it. They haven't been together in so long, so wrapped up in Kirk and McCoy's saga—well, the entire _Enterprise_ 's saga—but it still feels wrong, somehow, to even consider the possibility of sex. It takes all of Pavel's willpower to step away from Hikaru and his roving gaze, but he manages.

"You can admire it while we eat," he says. "I am hungry, remember?"

Hikaru looks up abruptly. His jaw shifts as he comes back to himself and realizes what's happening, why they're here. Pavel feels a flutter of regret in the pit of his stomach before he reminds himself: This isn't shore leave. It's a mission—perhaps the most serious mission of their lives, with the potential for the most devastating consequences.

"Right," Hikaru says. "Food."

He takes one last look at Pavel and heads to the door, a stiff soldier in a denim uniform.

*

They end up in a little diner that Hikaru can't stop marveling over. It's extremely wholesome and old-fashioned, practically a relic of the past. Hikaru loves retro things like this, loves to obsess over the finer details of nostalgia. Pavel watches Hikaru as Hikaru watches the waitresses. They take down orders from their assigned tables on small PADDs, flicking their hair back and popping gum as they work.

"You know they used to write the orders down in little books of paper?" Hikaru says.

"That seems wasteful."

"Well, it was a long time ago. Paperwork was done on actual paper, then."

"Yes, I know this, Hikaru. I don't know why you like this place so much," Pavel says. He looks down at the scratched surface of their table and traces one of the marks with his fingertip. "It seems very unclean. The _Enterprise_ cafeteria is immaculate in comparison."

"It's clean enough," Hikaru says, shrugging. Pavel thinks that Hikaru, the tidiest person he's ever met, must be losing his mind if he thinks these are adequate dining conditions. Hikaru scrolls through the menu and hums as he looks everything over. "I think I'll get eggs and sausage. They come with biscuits and gravy. I bet they're homemade."

Pavel scrunches up his nose. "Gravy on biscuits? This does not sound appealing."

"This, coming from someone who likes to eat potato chips with chocolate milk," Hikaru says, smirking. Pavel laughs and shrugs. He'd never had either of those treats until he went to the academy, where he discovered that he liked them in combination.

"I have special tastes!" he protests.

"Yeah, if by 'special,' you mean outlandish."

Pavel feigns a haughty look. "Maybe I do." He goes back to the menu, looking for something that appeals to him, when he hears the footsteps of a server. She stops by their table and smiles at Pavel when he looks up.

"What can I get you?" she asks, soft and friendly. She has very pretty blue eyes, almost sapphire-like in their hue, and her smile is soft and inviting. It's strange, but she makes Pavel feel more at ease. She tucks a stray strand of blond hair behind her ear, but it only falls right back in front of her face.

"Um," Pavel hears. It's Hikaru, staring up at the waitress across the booth, slack-jawed. Pavel gives him a disapproving look and lightly kicks his shin under the table, though that just makes Hikaru stutter again. "Shit. Ow. Um."

"Please excuse him," Pavel says, rolling his eyes. "He is strange." The waitress laughs and shrugs in a carefree manner.

"Strange is fine. I'd rather have strange than foul-mouthed or filthy." She looks between them with another smile. "Are you two here from out of town? I don't think I've seen your faces before."

"We are passing through the town," Pavel says, hoping he got the idiom right. "On our travels."

"Well, then, you must be hungry. You're the skinniest customers I've had all day."

Pavel feels himself blush but he tries to ignore it. "I would like pancakes, please. With syrup and cranberry juice."

"You got it, hon," she says, entering it into her PADD. She glances over at Hikaru. "How about you?"

"Um...scrambled eggs, please. With the biscuits and gravy."

"He wants to know if they are made at home," Pavel adds.

"Made at home?" she asks, grinning. "If you mean made on the premises, yes, everything here is. Sausage or bacon with that?"

"Sausage," Hikaru mumbles. "And tea, please."

"Coming right up."

The waitress walks to the kitchen and Hikaru can't take his eyes off her as she goes. Pavel frowns in displeasure. He agrees that the woman is quite beautiful, but he didn't come along on this trip to watch his boyfriend ogle women from the past.

"You're being rude," he mutters. Hikaru turns back to him, then, his eyes wide with wonder.

"Pavel, do you know who that is?"

"No, who?"

"That's _Winona_. Jim's mother."

Pavel gasps and leans over in his seat, trying to get a better look. "Are you sure? I agree she looks very familiar, but..."

"Of course I'm sure! Jim's shown me photos of her. Plus, we're in her hometown, so the chances are pretty damn good, wouldn't you say?"

"Okay, okay, you make your point," Pavel says. He takes a deep breath as he considers the situation. While it's bizarre to think that Winona Kirk—a decorated, senior-ranking Starfleet officer and Captain Kirk's mother—is serving them food in a greasy spoon, he also feels a thrill of excitement. There's been no reason to doubt their readings, but this is solid proof that Pavel's research has paid off, that his work with Scotty and Gaila was worthwhile. Pavel tries to shake off his exhilaration, the intensely pleasurable feeling of a successful scientific experiment. "This is good news," he says. "It is like we are detectives and we have found our first big clue in the case!"

"You've been reading too many crime novels before bed," Hikaru mutters.

"Hikaru, don't you see? It is all coming together!" Pavel leans forward, whispering animatedly. "This truly is the past! I'm sure we will find McCoy now."

Hikaru purses his lips and whispers back. "Well, I'm glad you're excited, because I'm scared shitless."

Pavel blinks, taken aback. "Scared? You were the one so anxious to come here."

"It's just... I mean, that's Jim's _mom_."

"Yes, you said." Pavel frowns. "I do not understand your meaning."

Hikaru looks down at his hands, folded on the tabletop. "I just... I don't want to fuck this up. Before it was...hypothetical, you know? And now we just got here, and we've already had a conversation with someone related to Jim. Anything we say could have some sort of impact, some end result that we can't anticipate. It's..." He pauses to compose himself and looks at Pavel; his severe expression is chilling. "We have to be careful, Pavel."

"I know."

They don't speak again until their food arrives, both lost in their own thoughts. Pavel picks up his fork and accidentally drops it on the floor out of nerves. Winona bends to retrieve it and smiles.

"I'll get you a new one, honey," she says.

Pavel nods and smiles blankly, his throat tight as he considers just how much history can hinge on a dropped fork.

*

The moon appears huge from the motel room window, like a prop suspended on a string from someone's fingertip. It sends a bright, unnatural light into the room that reminds Pavel of the constant, ethereal glow of the _Enterprise_ corridors, to which he always has to adjust his eyes when he wakes in the middle of the night. Hikaru doesn't seem to have any trouble sleeping, most likely because he's exhausted. Pavel knows the feeling. They've been searching for Doctor McCoy for three days, asking random strangers and giving them a description, and they've had no luck.

He hasn't admitted it to Hikaru, but Pavel is beginning to think that they're searching for a ghost.

Pavel burrows against his single, overly fluffy pillow and reminds himself that no matter what, he's better off here than stuck back on the _Enterprise_. Here, he can keep an eye on Hikaru and make sure he doesn't get into trouble as he goes above and beyond the call of duty in the name of his friendship with Jim. It's a friendship that Pavel has always envied, and not just because Hikaru is his boyfriend. He often thinks back to the seed of Hikaru and Kirk's relationship, the way Kirk blindly hurtled off that drill to retrieve Hikaru, as if nothing else mattered but saving his life. Pavel finds himself wondering if anyone would do the same for him. Hikaru would, almost certainly, and most likely—no, definitely—Captain Kirk. And that's the reason they're here, aren't they? They're making this quantum leap in time for Kirk.

Pavel sighs quietly and turns his head away from the window. He gasps when he spies Hikaru peering at him through sleepy, narrowed eyes.

"Hikaru, you scared me," he whispers. "Why are you not asleep?"

"Why aren't _you_ asleep?" Hikaru murmurs. "Got a big day ahead of us... Lots of, you know, walking around aimlessly and stuff."

"My brain will not sleep," Pavel sighs. He rubs at his eyes in frustration, stuttering out a harsh breath. "I am so tired and yet..."

"Shh, c'mere," Hikaru mumbles.

"Hikaru, no... Sleep now."

"I _said_ , c'mere."

He wraps an arm around Pavel's middle and pulls him close, under the sheets. Pavel leans into Hikaru and gently mouths at the sleep-warm skin of Hikaru's neck, the hollow of his throat. Hikaru makes a low noise, shivering beneath him and Pavel sighs, grateful for the solid feel of Hikaru, for something he knows. He shuts his eyes and recalls their mission briefing: Spock's voice droning on as he spoke of the potential psychological trauma of time travel, of finding yourself stuck in a reality that belongs to people other than you. Pavel nodded along, didn't pay it much mind, but now he finds his nerves are already frayed. He almost wishes that he didn't love Hikaru so much, that he wasn't so compelled to follow after him. Hikaru is much better at these things than he is. Equations, Pavel can do. He can navigate any solar system. He can tear through the very fabric of time for Hikaru to go charging through, sword and phaser drawn.

"I know you did not expect me to come here with you," Pavel whispers. "But you should know that I cannot help myself with you." Hikaru rubs his face against Pavel's cheek and exhales but doesn't answer. Pavel twists their legs together, bringing their bare hips into contact. Hikaru groans softly in response and Pavel does, too, the sound practically wrenched from him. "Hikaru, do you want...?"

" _Yes_. Please, god, yeah..."

Pavel nods jerkily and maneuvers their bodies so that he can prop himself above Hikaru. He rests his one hand over Hikaru's wrist and slides the other into his thick hair, brushing it back as he thrusts his hips. It's been so long. Pavel wants this to be languorous, romantic, but just the smell of Hikaru is too much to bear, making him hard all too quickly. They both moan shakily as their cocks rub together, the air under the covers turning thick and humid with their musk. Pavel shudders as a drop of sweat slides down the back of his thigh. He can't stop moving, can't get enough of Hikaru right now. If he can't go home, he needs this, at least.

He comes first, much too fast but so good, spurting his release over Hikaru's flat, trembling stomach. Hikaru kisses over Pavel's shoulders and Pavel can hear the ragged quality of his breath, the way he tries to hide it. He reaches down and takes Hikaru's twitching length in his hand, stroking the shaft with his knuckles and playing tenderly with the slit, until Hikaru's back arches off the bed and he cries out with a broken sound that Pavel swears he's never heard before.

Pavel gets some sleep after that. In the morning, he wakes up sticky and confused, until he remembers what happened during the night. He feels slightly guilty but he can't quite put his finger on why. Pavel sits up in bed and smiles when Hikaru, fresh from the shower, brings him a cup of coffee from the room service replicator.

"Gonna need this for all that aimless wandering," Hikaru says.

"Not aimless, I hope," Pavel says. He takes the cup with two hands and lets the steam wash over his face. He breathes in deeply. "I have a good feeling today."

*

Pavel is more than ready to declare anything and everything aimless by the time they sit down to lunch in that silly diner that Hikaru loves.

Naturally, that's when he finally spots Doctor McCoy.

"Hikaru," Pavel whispers breathlessly, reaching forward to grab his arm. "Look!" Pavel points to the front door, where McCoy has just entered with another man at his side. Hikaru lets out a soft laugh of disbelief.

"Holy shit. It's _him_. And...and that's—"

"George Kirk," Pavel finishes. The most recognizable crew member of the _U.S.S. Kelvin_. It's hard to forget a face that they've each seen at least a hundred times, one of Starfleet's greatest heroes, even if he is dressed down in a red plaid shirt and dusty dungarees. Pavel stares at him, captivated. It's like a history lesson come to life.

"So they did find each other." Hikaru stares for another few moments and then looks to Pavel. "Do you think he told George what happened?"

"I do not—oh, _bozhe moi_ , they are coming!"

McCoy and George walk farther into the diner as one of the waitresses leads them to an empty table, heading directly past the area where Pavel and Hikaru sit. George strides by, completely oblivious, but Pavel feels his heart rate jump when McCoy looks right at him. Pavel stands in a burst of nervous energy and plasters on a smile, waiting for a telltale sign of recognition from the doctor, maybe an outward sign of relief.

It never comes. McCoy's lips curl downward in a sort of _What the hell are_ you _looking at, kid?_ scowl as he walks past. Pavel has definitely been on the receiving end of that particular look before. McCoy and George sit down at a nearby table and Pavel looks down at Hikaru blankly.

"What happened?" Hikaru asks in a hushed voice. "Why didn't he stop?"

"I do not know." Pavel sits down again, a wave of worry washing over him. "He looked at me as though he didn't know me." He watches out of the corner of his eye as McCoy and George banter casually with a waitress, someone other than Winona. "He appears healthy, but...perhaps the time travel had an adverse effect. Or perhaps..." Pavel trails off for a moment as he remembers. His mind is swarmed suddenly with visions of McCoy's slack face as he falls, an oozing wound on his skull, a heavy trickle of blood. "Perhaps Doctor McCoy has amnesia."

"Oh, god," Hikaru groans quietly. He looks as Pavel and seems to read his thoughts. "The head injury." He turns in his seat to glance quickly at McCoy. "I don't see anything wrong with him, though. No scar, no bandages... You think George healed him?"

"I suppose." Pavel exhales and it sounds like a groan. It feels like one, too. "How do we convince McCoy to return with us if his memory is gone? What if he does not remember the captain? Or the _Enterprise_ , or anything? What if he is happy here and does not want to leave, Hikaru? How do we explain this to the captain?"

Hikaru purses his lips together tightly and then moves to stand. "Well, there's only way to find out."

"Hikaru!" Pavel hisses. He grabs Sulu by the arm and pulls him back down to the booth. "Are you crazy?! This is not flying under the radar! This is very _on_ the radar, where everyone can see you!"

"Pavel, I'm not just going to throw a bag over his head and drag him back to the future with us. I'll be— _we'll_ be careful. Desperate times, you know?"

"We should strategize," Pavel says. He gestures with firm movements of his hand, his brow furrowed. "Let us go back to the motel, reassess the—"

"No time."

Hikaru stands, without another word, and heads directly for McCoy and George's table. Pavel curses under his breath and realizes that once again, he has no choice but to follow. He goes and stands dumbly next to Hikaru. McCoy and George pause in their conversation and stare up at them blankly they sip coffee, as if they're waiting for something to happen. Pavel purses his lips tightly and fights the urge to fidget.

Eventually, George shifts his gaze over to McCoy. "Friends of yours?" he ventures.

Pavel shifts uneasily on his feet as McCoy looks them over slowly. The way he's taking his time, Pavel prays silently that their faces will connect the dots.

"Can't say I've had the pleasure," he drawls, setting down his drink. Hikaru clears his throat, as if to speak, but then McCoy goes on. "Let me guess. You two are Starfleet."

"Uh...yeah. Yes," Hikaru says. He sounds as surprised as Pavel feels.

"Recruiters?" George asks. Pavel detects an interested glimmer in his eye and almost smiles.

McCoy waves a hand. "They're probably just here to track me down, George. I figured they'd come looking eventually." He gives them the once-over again. "Even if they are the scrawniest Starfleet officers I've ever seen."

Pavel flushes and adjusts the collar of his jacket self-consciously. "You are aware that you are in Starfleet, sir?" His voice sounds more timid than he'd like it to be.

"Apparently," McCoy grunts. He sips at a cup of coffee and shakes his head. "Listen, though. I'm not going back. I don't even remember being there or why I signed up in the first place. That stuff's not for me, so just...declare me AWOL or MIA, or whatever it is you need to do."

"Doctor McCoy," Hikaru ventures. "You're the chief medical officer of your ship. With all due respect, sir: Your presence is needed."

George looks stunned by that information but McCoy only frowns. "I told you, I don't remember. And I don't want to. I can save just as many lives here on Earth. I don't need to zip around the universe in a tin can to do my job."

"It is not a tin can," Pavel says defensively. "She is the flagship of the Federation's fleet. She is the most—"

Pavel finds himself cut off from his rant about the _Enterprise_ when Hikaru grabs him by the arm and pulls him aside. He whispers harshly in Pavel's ear. "Pavel, don't give away too much information. The _Enterprise_ hasn't been built yet. George can't know we're from the future. We don't know what could happen if he finds out."

"But we must tell the doctor the truth. He must remember his real life."

Hikaru pauses to think, looking away for a moment. "Got an idea," he murmurs. Then he leads Pavel back to the table. Both McCoy and George look at them with thinly veiled amusement.

"Didn't mean to insult your prized tin can, boys," McCoy says, smirking. "Done with your little _tête-à-tête_?"

"Look," Hikaru says, raising his hands. "We know you're reluctant. But you're the best doctor in the Fleet and we'd hate to lose you. Plus, your friend here seems interested in hearing more." He pauses as McCoy throws George an annoyed look. "We're off-duty tonight, so why don't you let us take you out for a drink, and we can discuss it? Maybe we can help you remember some things about your ship, fill in the blanks a little."

"Fuck off," McCoy grunts.

"I think it's a good idea," George says. He laughs when McCoy rolls his eyes. "Come on, Len. You've been wondering what happened to you for weeks, now. We both have. And now you're gonna pass up the chance to get some answers?"

McCoy looks at George and Pavel watches intently as something unspoken passes between them. There's a pleading look in George's eyes that reminds Pavel of the captain so strongly that it nearly crushes him. Like father, like son, Pavel thinks. And McCoy can't seem to say no to either of them.

"All right," McCoy says through gritted teeth. He looks between Pavel and Hikaru suspiciously. "But you're buying. And I don't drink bottom shelf."

This time, George is the one to roll his eyes. "Yeah, right," he says.

"Great," Hikaru says, looking pleased with himself. He smiles to Pavel briefly, as if to say, _See?_ but Pavel still feels uneasy. "I'm Hikaru Sulu," Hikaru says, slowly, as if it will jog McCoy's memory somehow. "And this is Pavel Chekov."

It doesn't seem to work. McCoy just nods curtly, glancing between them. "I'm McCoy. As you already seem to know. And that's George."

George holds his hand out and Pavel nearly hesitates before he takes it. He blinks in quiet awe as he shakes a dead man's hand.

It's safe to say that Spock never prepared them for anything quite like this.

*

Pavel isn't too surprised when McCoy orders the best bourbon the bar has in stock, and lots of it, burning through Pavel's credits like they're made of air. He hopes that he and Hikaru will have enough left to pay for the motel room, though he supposes no one will stop them if they skip out on the bill, as they're going back home. Still, the idea makes him uncomfortable. Pavel orders vodka but secretly instructs the bartender to water it down so he can remain alert.

There's also the worrying fact that Hikaru has taken a shine to George Kirk and is busy playing pool with him, leaving Pavel alone with McCoy. Pavel keeps shooting Hikaru pleading looks, silently begging him for backup, but Hikaru just winks at him and nods, as though Pavel should keep at whatever he's doing. Right now, he's just sitting and fidgeting in his chair as McCoy drinks. Pavel knows he should be grateful for the confidence Hikaru seems to have in him, but right now he's panicking too much and generally hating Hikaru's guts.

"So, what's the deal with you, kid?" McCoy asks suddenly, interrupting Pavel's thoughts. "You don't speak? Ashamed of your accent?"

"I speak," Pavel says. He frowns petulantly. "Hikaru—Lieutenant Sulu sometimes jokes that I speak _too_ much."

"Hikaru Lieutenant Sulu, huh?" McCoy smirks and eats a pretzel from the bowl on the table. Pavel thinks he doesn't want to know how old those pretzels are. They're probably still sitting there in the year 2260. "You two boyfriends or something?"

"Something like that," Pavel murmurs. He feels himself blush when McCoy looks at him.

"Cute," McCoy says. He eats another pretzel. "Going on a rescue mission with your boyfriend. Starfleet sounds like a hell of a gig."

"Fraternization between crew members is usually frowned upon, but it is unavoidable, I think." Pavel sips his vodka and looks up at McCoy. "Also...our captain is very accepting in this area."

McCoy snorts at that. "Probably wants to bang some hot, young ensigns; that's why."

Pavel ducks his head slightly and decides to ignore that one. "Are, ah...you and George boyfriends?" He's not sure what compels him to ask. But he's seen the looks McCoy has been giving George all night, reminiscent of the way he often looks at Captain Kirk. Pavel knows that getting McCoy back to their time is not going to be a simple task if he's in love with George Kirk.

McCoy gives Pavel a look that could bend titanium. "Little presumptuous, don't you think?"

"You asked me first!"

"Yeah, yeah, all right. You're lucky I'm drinking." McCoy turns slightly to glance at George and then back at Pavel. "No," he mumbles. "Not really. He's been letting me stay with him. Think he might have a little crush, but...I dunno. He's a good kid."

"Handsome," Pavel says quietly, nodding.

"Shit, handsome, sure. I'm not blind, you know. There've been a few times when I..." He stops and shakes his head, going back to his bourbon. "Well, anyway. There's nothing to it. He could do better."

"He seems interested in Starfleet." Pavel lifts his brow. "Perhaps he will enlist."

McCoy grunts and finishes his drink, motioning to one of the servers for another. "I told him not to bother."

"Because you want him to stay here with you?" Pavel asks quietly.

"More like I don't want him to end up as an ugly, used-up smear on the galaxy's backside."

The doctor doesn't know just how accurate he is. Pavel swallows nervously and makes a quick decision to change the subject. "You know, Doctor...you do have a real boyfriend. A partner, that is. On our ship. He is waiting for you, very patiently."

"No kidding," McCoy says flatly. "What's his name?"

"Jim."

McCoy goes quiet, then, and Pavel watches closely, hoping to ignite some spark in McCoy's memory. If there's anyone the doctor might remember, it would be the captain. But he only looks sad, running his fingers along the condensation of his empty glass.

"Jim, huh?" he sighs. "Wish I could remember him. What's he like, then?"

Pavel looks up thoughtfully. "He is very kind and charming. A good leader. Courageous. And he annoys you very much."

"Oh, great," McCoy scoffs. "And how long have we been together?"

"I cannot say." Pavel shakes his head slowly. "Years, I think."

The server brings over a fresh glass of bourbon for McCoy, placing it on the table. He barely acknowledges it. McCoy looks over at George, who's laughing at something Hikaru has said. He runs his fingers through his hair with a look of anguish on his face, groaning unhappily into his palm.

"Goddamn it, man, why can't I _remember_?" he asks bitterly. "Whole damn thing doesn't make _sense_... I can barely remember leaving my wife—seems like I was just with her yesterday, and yet...all I have to do is look in the mirror to know I've aged. Something just ain't right here, Paul."

"Pavel." He takes a deep breath and glances over at Hikaru, still enmeshed in his game with George and well into his fourth drink. He's completely on his own here, hard-pressed to remember even Mr. Spock's words of wisdom. Pavel tries to summon Captain Kirk's spirit, poses himself a seemingly funny but serious question: _What would Jim do?_ "Doctor McCoy," he whispers. "I know what has happened to you. But it will seem very strange if I tell you."

"Well, strange is quickly becoming my specialty, so let's hear it."

Pavel leans forward and gestures to McCoy gingerly. "You, Leonard McCoy, are the chief medical officer on the _U.S.S. Enterprise_. You lost your memory after you were injured in an attack on the ship, right..." He leans forward and taps McCoy on his right temple. "Here."

McCoy blinks and rears back in his seat, the legs of his chair scraping audibly against the floor. "...How do you know that?" he asks warily.

"Because Hikaru and I are from the future. Or, rather, we are from the present and right now, we are all in the past. You were sent back in time by our invaders, Doctor. And we have come to retrieve you so the course of history remains intact."

"Okay, wait. Hold on a sec," McCoy says. He waves a hand and pushes his bourbon aside. "First of all, there's no such thing as time travel. And secondly, what the hell do _I_ have to do with the course of history? I'm a doctor, not the second coming, damn it."

Pavel nearly quirks a smile. He's missed McCoy's little outbursts. "It is an invention of the future, Doctor. Developed by Romulans and perfected by, ah...me. The variable here is not you but George Kirk. His future son will be instrumental in saving Earth from a Romulan attack in the year 2258. If he does not fulfill his dream of joining Starfleet, then...I cannot say what will happen to us. To all the Federation planets."

"Good god, man, 2258? What year _is_ this, anyway? What year did you come from?"

"We all come from 2260. Here, it is 2225."

"It—2225?" McCoy blinks, his mouth falling open in shock. "I wasn't even born yet in 2225. Shit, those med journals...they're old, aren't they? I'd already read 'em all."

Pavel furrows his brow, not understanding, but he nods. "It is the year George enlists in Starfleet, where he meets his wife, Winona, and starts his family."

"The _waitress_? Oh, sweet _Jesus_." McCoy runs a hand over his face and tries to breathe evenly. Pavel can see he's conflicted, and probably a little addled from all the alcohol, too. When McCoy finally speaks again, his voice is hushed and unsure. "Okay, Pavel Chekov. Let's say I've completely lost my marbles and I decide to believe you. Fact is I still don't remember anything about being in Starfleet or this so-called partner of mine. And I _like_ it here. With George," he adds. He curses under his breath and ducks his head. "Damn it."

"I am sure your memory will come back, Doctor." Pavel exhales, unsure if he's done the right thing. He dares to lightly touch McCoy's hand. "We are staying at the Blue Ridge Motel. We will automatically be transported back to 2260 in two days, at 0900 hours. You must be with us at that time if you are to come. There is no second chance, so please... Think about it."

"Yeah," McCoy says shortly, yanking his hand away from Pavel's. "Swell." He stands on wobbly legs and nods. "Thanks for the booze, kid. And the fucked-up bedtime story."

McCoy goes to collect George, leaving a bewildered Hikaru in their wake. George laughs and says something that Pavel can't hear, then comes running over with an ancient-looking device.

"Okay, okay," George says, waving them all forward. "But before we go, I just wanna get a photo of everyone."

"Damn it, George, not this again," McCoy grumbles.

Hikaru marvels at the old, old camera in George's hands, his fascination no real shock to Pavel. "Jesus. This thing must be hundreds of years old."

"Yeah, I restored it myself. Kind of a hobby of mine." George fiddles with something on the device and then sets it down, running over to join them. "Come on, everyone, look happy. Len, look less drunk, will ya?"

McCoy barks out a "Fuck you, George" just as the camera's flash goes off.

They bid McCoy and George goodbye. Pavel thinks that if he were not such a scientist, he might consider praying for McCoy to return with them. As it is, Pavel can only watch from afar as George Kirk slings his arm around McCoy's shoulders and they leave without looking back. He tries to ignore the feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach.

"Did it work?" Hikaru asks, walking over. Pavel shrugs.

"I tried," he says quietly. "We will see."

He still has two nights of dreams ahead of him, of returning home to a dark, cold, Earth-less galaxy, loud with the deafening silence of restless ghosts.

 

IV.

Jim races through the corridors, nearly colliding with everyone who dares to stand as an obstacle in his path. He comes close to headbutting a yeoman who won't move when he asks her to get the hell out of the way, for the love of _god_.

He could barely sleep all night, knowing what was supposed to happen this morning, namely Sulu and Chekov's return from the past. In his infinite wisdom, Jim stayed up all night, watching vids to distract himself, and eventually fell asleep on one of Bones' old academy sweatshirts. He woke from a nightmare with fabric creases all over his face, fifteen minutes after he'd planned to be waiting and ready in the transporter room.

When he arrives, Scotty and Gaila are busy at work behind their console, effortlessly flicking switches and pushing buttons like the total bad-ass engineers they are. Jim tries to catch his breath as he approaches the area by the transporter pads, where Spock and Uhura stand, their hands clasped together.

Uhura turns to Jim and arches a brow. "You overslept? Today?"

"I was sort of up all night watching vids. I fell asleep in the middle of _Gone With the Wind_." Jim shrugs slightly. "It's Bones' favorite."

"That's sweet," she says, an amused lilt to her voice. "And you ran all the way here?"

"Basically."

"Do not fear, Jim," Spock says. "As of yet, you have not missed any considerable activity."

Jim nods and checks his chronometer. He feels a bit lightheaded, though he assumes it's just from nerves. His mind is going a mile a minute and it's taking all of his energy not to pitch himself to the ground and throw a tantrum. Jim furrows his brow and tries to focus, willing the seconds to tick by faster.

"So I guess it's a good sign that nothing has changed, right?" he says, half speaking to the others and half to himself. "Like, if anything happened to Bones or my dad, the floor would probably be melting or something."

Spock gives him a puzzled look. "Melting, Jim? It is impossible to predetermine the affects of Doctor McCoy's presence in the past as such a phenomenon has never been attempted prior to this time. However, I sincerely doubt that the floor would melt as a result of his actions."

"You know what I mean," Jim says, rolling his eyes. "If something significant had happened involving Bones, Sulu, or Chekov, the present would probably alter itself in accordance with that event. No one's disappeared into thin air yet, so...good sign."

"Again, Jim, there is no way of knowing."

"I'll venture it's a good sign," Uhura says. "Now come here and hold my other hand."

"Really?" Jim blinks and looks to Spock, who slowly nods his consent. It's weird, but the two of them are going to make Jim cry if they keep this up. He steps closer to Uhura and carefully takes her hand in his own. "Thanks," he whispers.

"All right, ladies and gents, we're about fifteen seconds away from arrival," Scotty announces. "Let's all hope that the lads did it."

Jim nods to himself and tries to breathe evenly, staring at the transporter pads. He gets a bit of a shock when Uhura leans up and kisses his jaw lightly.

"Good luck, Jim," she says. He makes a faint sound that's close to a whimper.

Gaila pipes up with the countdown. "Preparing for transport in five...four..."

"Do that again some time when I'm not too scared to appreciate it," Jim whispers to Uhura. She squeezes his hand.

"Two...one!"

Then there's that sickening green light, the one that still haunts Jim at the corners of his vision, and he has to shut his eyes against it. He never wants to see that color again. Jim opens his eyes when he feels Uhura squeeze his hand again, harder this time, and as he looks to the transporter pad, he lets out a rush of air he didn't realize he was holding in his lungs.

Standing there, all in seemingly good shape are Sulu, Chekov, and Bones.

Fuck, _Bones_.

"Oh, god," Jim blurts out, his knees buckling slightly. Uhura reaches out to steady him and then, just like that, the utter silence of the transporter room is drowned out by cheers and yells. Scotty jumps up from his seat and whoops, pumping his fist in the air, and Gails bounces and claps in excitement. Even Spock looks pleased, which is kind of an unusual expression for him. Sulu and Chekov embrace each other tightly, laughing into each other's shoulders like they can't even believe it, and fuck, now that definitely _does_ bring tears to Jim's eyes.

But really, the only person Jim wants to look at is Bones. His Bones, standing there on the transporter pad in a plaid button-down shirt, for god's sake, and jeans that don't leave much to the imagination. Jim could gaze at him forever. Bones appears dazed, looking around at the others and then at the interior of the ship. Jim dashes up the steps to meet him, and when he gets there, close enough to touch, he sees an odd bewilderment in Bones' eyes. Bones gasps faintly, nearly jerking away, though he can't seem to stop staring at Jim.

Jim reaches up and cups Bones' face lightly, licking his lips nervously. "I know, Bones. Fuck, I can't believe it, either." He runs his thumb along Bones' cheekbone, rough with stubble, and Bones shivers, his lashes fluttering.

"You—"

"Jim, wait," Sulu says, cutting Bones off.

"No, just..." Jim shakes his head and wraps his arms protectively around Bones, pressing his nose to his neck and breathing in. Fuck, there it is again, fresh in his blood, that scent he's missed so much. He feels like he could lie down and die for Bones' smell. "I need a minute, okay? _We_ need a minute."

Sulu speaks again, in a sobering tone of voice. "Jim. He has amnesia."

"...You're kidding."

Jim lifts his head, still holding onto Bones. It takes him a moment before he can bring himself to look back into those hazel eyes he knows so well; he's studied them, knows every hint of every emotion they're capable of conveying. Now, they're startlingly blank. Almost afraid. Shocked and upset. And yet somehow, Jim thinks he can see a hint of cognizance there. He feels the weight of everyone's stares and wishes he had the power to make them all disappear, just for a moment. Then again, he might not be able to handle this on his own.

"Bones?" Jim whispers, testing the waters. He tries on a crooked grin, something that would normally make Bones roll his eyes with impatience. "You remember me, don't you, Bones? C'mon, I mean...you have to."

Bones lifts a hand to touch Jim's face carefully. He traces his jaw, his chin, and all too briefly, his lips.

"You look just like him," Bones whispers. Jim swallows heavily.

"Who?"

"George."

*

Jim sits on the floor of his quarters that night and sullenly scrolls through his comms, picking and choosing the few he actually cares to read. There's one from Spock, a note to let Jim know that he plans to begin the proceedings to make commendations for Chekov and Sulu happen, and maybe a promotion in rank for Chekov as well.

He writes back: _Great._

There's another comm from Uhura, with Gaila copied on it, reminding Jim that they're both available to talk if he feels like it. It's nice of them, but it's safe to say that he doesn't feel like it. Jim deletes the message and pulls the hood of Bones' sweatshirt over his head, pulling the drawstrings taut. He's kind of surprised by the lack of comms from Sulu in his inbox, though it's possible that he's off having victory-slash-hooray-we-survived sex with Chekov.

He gets a reply from Spock that reads, _We will continue this discussion when you have returned to your usual level of verbosity_ , when he hears an alert at his door.

"Computer, identify," he sighs.

 _Visitor identified: Lieutenant Hikaru Sulu._

Okay, so maybe no victory sex tonight. Jim grants Sulu access and then hears the doors swoosh open. Sulu takes a few steps inside the quarters and then calls out, "Jim?"

"On the other side of the bed," he replies. He looks up when Sulu appears above him. "What're you doing here? Should be with Pavel."

"Pavel's fine. He's been bugging me to come and talk to you since we got back, actually. I told him you probably needed space, but he won't hear of it."

"Yeah, well," Jim mutters, scrubbing idly at his nose. "I hope you brought booze."

Sulu smirks and kneels down on the floor, sitting beside Jim. "I was hoping you'd have some of that bourbon left. Seeing as how delicious it was."

"That's long gone. Long imbibed, long pissed out...long puked up in the bathroom sink."

"I could do without the details, thanks," Sulu says. He looks at Jim and sighs. "They found some spare quarters for McCoy."

Jim nods mutely and closes his eyes. It didn't seem right to ask Bones to come back to their shared quarters, seeing as how Jim is no more than a stranger to him now. Or, well, a stranger who reminds him of Jim's dad. Which is just... _weird_. Jim thinks back to Chekov's debriefing report, which Spock granted Jim access to, a few hours earlier. He got the chills just reading it. _We spotted Doctor McCoy and George Kirk in a diner_ , it read, and _Lieutenant Sulu played a game of billiards with George Kirk_ , it said. George Kirk this and George Kirk that. George Kirk in the flesh, his memory alive and bright in all of their minds.

They got to meet _Jim_ 's dad. All of them, except for Jim. When he's the only one who's wanted as much for twenty-fucking-seven years.

Jim doesn't realize he's crying until Sulu reaches over and touches his arm.

"Hey," he says softly. "You need to borrow my sleeve?"

"No, thanks," Jim says, hiccupping slightly as he laughs. He reaches up and smears away the tears with the cuff of Bones' sweatshirt. "Got my own."

Sulu smiles at Jim and it's not forced or disingenuous at all. It's not like the pitying smiles people have been giving him in the ship's corridors for weeks now. None of them have been vicious, not even a little bit, but they still make Jim ache in his gut and want to break things.

"Talk to me, man," Sulu offers. "Tell me what you're feeling."

"H, I'm feeling so many things that I think I'm dangerously close to a total head explosion."

"Sounds messy. Just make sure you're not in the botany lab when it happens."

Jim snorts. "Just for that, I'm letting your precious lilacs take the brunt of it." He runs a hand over his face and sighs, leaning his head back on the edge of the bed. "Can you...um. Will you tell me what my dad was like?"

"McCoy can probably tell you more than I can," Sulu says, shrugging. "He seemed great. Really smart. And funny, you know? Not quite as bawdy as you, but...yeah. He cracked me up a few times. He reminded me of you."

Jim smiles weakly. "Heard you guys played some pool." Sulu nods and laughs.

"Yeah, we did. He mopped the floor with me."

"Well, that's not surprising." Jim toys with the drawstrings of the sweatshirt, trying to breathe steadily and keep his voice from cracking. "I guess I wish I'd been there," he whispers, not trusting himself to speak up. "I mean...I do. I do wish it. I'm fucking sick over it."

"I know." Sulu moves closer to let Jim lean against his side. "I wish you'd been there, too, Jim. But it was too risky. What if the Romulans were right, you know? What if you went and you never wanted to come back?"

"I would have come back. This is my _ship_. You know I would have."

"Jim, you don't know that. I mean, I'm not even from Iowa and still, being in the past was weirdly...I dunno. Seductive." Sulu pauses and Jim tries to push away the thought that he'd give anything to know what Sulu means by that. "And anyway, what if something happened to you? What if you went and we couldn't get you back home? Or if you were killed? Then where would we all be?"

"Up shit creek, 'cause I'm awesome," Jim mumbles.

"And here I thought I'd never hear the sweet sound of your ego again," Sulu deadpans. He nudges Jim's arm lightly. "You know, they're giving McCoy some tours of the ship. To see if they help him to remember. He actually recognized Chapel."

"Oh, _great_ ," Jim groans, rubbing his forehead. "He remembers his head nurse and not me? Don't tell me that, H."

"Sorry," Sulu says. He looks away guiltily. "Maybe you should be the one to show McCoy around, Jim. You guys probably have a ton of memories between you of different parts of the ship. And I don't just mean sexy ones."

Jim laughs tiredly. "Yeah...that's the thing. Not sure I can deal with all those memories if Bones can't remember them, too. Y'know?"

"Yeah. No, I know."

"Hey," Jim whispers. He looks off blankly and then turns to Sulu. His eyelids feel heavy suddenly, the exhaustion of the past few weeks catching up with him. "I haven't thanked you yet. For getting him back. I mean...you're basically the baddest motherfucker I know, forever and ever. You know that, right? You _and_ Pavel. We're gonna pin so many medals on you guys, you won't be able to fucking walk."

"As fun as that sounds," Sulu says, laughing as he pats Jim's knee, "worry about McCoy first, okay? I mean, don't get me wrong; I want those medals. Seriously—all of them. But for the moment, they can wait. And you should go to bed; you look wrecked."

"Yeah," Jim agrees, yawning. "I guess so."

They stand and share a tight hug. Sulu pats Jim's back.

"Get some rest, okay? We need you to be captain again or Pavel's going to shit himself on the bridge one of these days."

"That could be good for building character."

"I'll tell him you said so." Sulu smirks and turns to leave, then stops in his tracks, pointing two fingers at Jim. "Hey. I just remembered something else about your dad. You know he was an old-time photography buff?"

"Yeah, kinda," Jim says, smiling. "My mom kept some of his photos. You guys talk about it?"

"Just a little. He took a photo of us in the bar. We were all drunk, so...probably wasn't very good."

"Huh," Jim says. He makes a mental note of it for later.

So much for sleep after that. Jim manages about two hours before he wakes and raids his closet to look for his dad's old photos, the ones his mom said she didn't care to keep. Most of them are landscapes, some of Winona herself, a couple of them together with Sam. Jim opens the box breathlessly when he finds it. He kneels on the floor as he flips through them, searching, searching.

And then...he sees them. In one, his dad, Bones, Sulu, and Chekov, are all wedged together and smiling cheesily for the camera, aside from Bones, who looks like he's in the middle of a bitch fit. It's just as Sulu described; the color is slightly faded and the edges turned yellow. And the second photo...god. The second one is his dad and Bones alone, pillows behind their heads, wisps of smiles on both of their faces. It's enigmatic, beautiful, their eyes so warm and expressive. Jim's never seen either of them before in his life, and yet, here they are, wedged inside a pile of photos he's looked through at least a hundred times, as if they've been here all along.

It's not a melting floor, not by a long shot. It's so subtle that it breaks Jim's heart. He remains kneeling, lost in the darkness of his room and he clutches the second photo to his chest, as if he can leave an imprint of it on his skin.

*

Jim makes a deal with Spock, albeit reluctantly, to start attending those counseling sessions in return for Spock sending him occasional paperwork. He's going crazy, sitting in his room with nothing to do but think about Bones and his dad, so Jim agrees just to regain some ways of passing the time.

Doctor Lerner is nice enough, incredibly patient as Jim goes back and forth between sullen silence and bursts of chatter. Still, Jim doesn't feel much better after his first session. Things won't feel right again until Bones remembers his life on the _Enterprise_ , not to mention their relationship. Jim tells Lerner as much during their third session.

"Have you considered the possibility that Doctor McCoy might never fully regain his memory?" she asks, tilting her head to the side. Jim shakes his head firmly.

"No. He's going to remember eventually. He has to."

"Jim..." Lerner sighs, her dark hair swaying as she shakes her head. "It's a real possibility. You'll have to ask yourself at some point if you're prepared to rebuild your relationship with Leonard."

He shuts his eyes and sees the faces of Bones and his dad, in the photo he's looked at a hundred times now—the one he keeps under his pillow because he can't believe it's real and worries it might disappear. They look at each other in a way that makes Jim's guts twist. He can hardly bear Bones' soft expression; one that Jim thought was reserved only for him.

"I need Bones—Leonard—to remember," he says gruffly. "I don't—I can't do it otherwise."

"You haven't spoken to him yet, have you? Not since he returned and likened to you to your father."

Jim slumps in his seat. "No."

Lerner puts away her PADD. "Then I believe you have some homework, young man."

Jim wrinkles his nose in distaste. He's always hated homework.

He sets about spending the day actively avoiding Lerner's assignment, diving into the work that Spock sends him. After a few hours, though, his quarters start to feel confining, so Jim replicates some soup—something bland that won't aggravate his allergies—and takes it with his PADD to the observatory deck.

Jim nearly spills the soup when he finds Bones sitting there, staring blankly at the stars. Bones turns his head when he hears the doors open. He looks chastened when he catches sight of Jim and he shifts in his seat as if to make a quick exit.

"Sorry," Bones blurts out. He hooks a thumb toward the door. "Didn't know you were heading in. I can just—"

"No, stay," Jim says quickly. He can't help but laugh, despite himself. "I...I'm just surprised to see you in here. Usually, you avoid this deck like the plague."

Bones nods and quirks the barest hint of a smile. "I was a little queasy at first, I'll admit." He looks back to the view screen, taking it all in. "But...they're goddamn pretty, aren't they? The stars. First thing I saw when I woke up in Riverside."

"Yeah." Jim swallows and shifts on his feet. The heat of his soup container starts to burn the pads of his fingers. "I didn't mean to interrupt. I'll see you around, okay?"

"I wouldn't mind if you stayed." Bones runs a hand through his hair and sighs, as if he's forcing out the words. "Hell, I want you to stay. If you wouldn't mind, that is. Jim."

Well, he can't say no to that, can he? Jim hesitates and then smiles as if the whole thing doesn't bother him and takes a seat next to Bones. Neither of them says anything for a while, simply gazing at the millions of stars on full view before them. Jim flips open the top of his soup thermos and sips the broth, sighing quietly as it warms his throat.

"Smells good," he hears. It's Bones, who's looking at him intently, done with the stars for now.

"Chicken and rice," Jim says. "Don't worry; it doesn't have any celery in it. I programmed it not to."

Bones lifts an eyebrow curiously. "Celery?"

"Oh, um. I'm allergic. I thought you—sorry, I forgot you don't remember." Jim smiles weakly. "I'll have to make you a list of everything else I'm allergic to, so you can reacquaint yourself with my insane immune system."

Bones waves a hand idly. He exhales slowly. "Save your breath. Just more proof that I'm not fit to be the CMO of this ship, anyway. Not to mention that I don't remember anything from my academy training. Well...a few things are coming back to me, here and there. But not much. Not enough to run that sickbay."

Jim squints and goes back to his soup. It didn't even occur to him that Bones would have lost his academy memories: the way they met, their first room together. The first night that Jim crossed the room, moving from one bed to another, and reached for Bones in the darkness—his warm, solid body beneath Jim's, his wet, gasping mouth open on a plea for Jim's touch.

God help him; he doesn't want to be the only person who remembers it.

"Hey," Bones says, interrupting his thoughts. Jim inhales shakily and looks at him. He can feel his eyes are wet and Bones face seems to soften in response. "Jesus. Sorry, Jim. I was just going to say... Well, never mind it."

"No, go on," Jim says, steeling himself. "Say whatever you need to say to me."

Bones squints and licks his lips. "Just that your dad was allergic to chocolate."

"Yeah?" Jim laughs sharply, wiping at his eyes. "Well, fuck him, then, 'cause I'm allergic to it, too. All his fucking fault."

"Bad genes, bad luck," Bones agrees. He smiles faintly and scrubs his hands over his face. When they come away, he's frowning instead, his bottom lip trembling. "He was a good kid, Jim. A good man. You should know that. I looked up what happened to him after I left. What happened to you." His chest heaves with a shuddering breath. "Goddamn. I can't even..."

"Bones," Jim tries to plead with him. "You don't have to. Okay?"

"Don't have to what? Admit that it was my fault? That I left him to a terrible fate? Jesus, Jim, you gotta believe that I told him not to go. But then that Pavel kid told me... He said George _had_ to go, or else we'd all end up dead one day. This...this _farm boy_ had to run off and spawn the kid who ends up saving the whole goddamn universe. And I just thought...I couldn't afford not to believe him." Bones digs his fingers into the weave of his trousers and shakes his head, his jaw tight. "I didn't think it would be like this, Jim," he whispers. "Talk about a shit ending."

All Jim wants to do is reach out and grab him, press his face to Bones' hair and make the whole thing go away. As it is, he can only listen and pretend that he has half an idea of what Bones is going through. "I couldn't fault you for listening to your instincts, Bones," he says quietly. Jim touches his own throat, as if he can feel the knot forming there. "So, did you love him?" he whispers.

Bones sniffs and pulls a flask from his pocket, unscrewing the lid. The sight almost makes Jim smile, it's so familiar.

"I wasn't quite there yet," he answers. "Suppose I could've gotten there in time." He smirks and takes a swig of his drink, whatever it is, and swallows with a wince. "I'm sure now it was just because he reminded me of you, deep down. When he found me, I was on the ground, bleeding and incapacitated... He didn't even know me and he took care of me. Completely selfless, y'know?" He looks at Jim and purses his lips, looking resigned. "They tell me you're the same way."

Jim shrugs, not knowing how to respond, not caring who "they" might be. He wants to ask more—wants to dig deeper. But he doesn't want to. Hell, he _needs_ to.

"Did you ever...? Um. With George, I mean."

Bones scratches the back of his neck. "We kissed. Once." He looks sour. "When I told him I had to go back to Starfleet after all. I wouldn't let it go any further, knowing I wouldn't be seeing him again. Didn't seem right."

"Oh," Jim says. He wants to make a crack about how being a good kisser probably runs in the family, something to alleviate the tension. But that's all he can manage: _oh_.

"So, uh... Why do you call me that, anyway?"

Jim looks up, confused. "Huh? Call you what?"

"‘Bones.' Must be a story behind it."

"Oh, yeah." Jim smiles a little at the request. It's bizarre, telling Bones a story he should already know like the back of his hand, but he supposes he'll have to get used to it. "It's kind of a joke, from this thing you told me when we first met."

McCoy nods faintly and then blinks, a glimmer of clarity seeming to pass over his features. "On a shuttle ride. Right?"

"Right," Jim says, shocked. He lets out a gust of laughter, feeling all sorts of fuzzies over the fact that Bones actually remembers something about him. Not anyone else, but something special, something important about _him_. "Headed to the academy."

"I think I remember that," Bones says. He worries his bottom lip with his teeth in concentration. "I was, uh...scared," he admits gruffly. "You distracted me. But it feels like we already knew each other."

"We didn't. I was...well. I dunno. It's kind of a long story."

"Yeah?" Bones lifts his brow in interest and offers his open flask to Jim. "Tell me all about it," he says.

Jim feels a prickle at the base of his skull as he looks down at the proffered flask, the metal glinting with the reflections of stars. He takes it gingerly from Bones.

"Okay," he says, on a drawn-in breath. "So I was hanging out in this bar."

*

Jim stumbles into his quarters a few nights later, utterly exhausted after a full night on the basketball court with Sulu. Bones and Chekov sat on the sidelines and Bones pretended to be interested while Chekov prattled on to him about who knows what. Actually, the two of them seem to get along fairly well; they were never good friends before Bones' disappearance, but Jim supposes that they have a connection now. Bones is kind of attached to the bright-eyed, curly-haired ensign who brought him home, even if Bones still doesn't remember much of what home is.

Bones has been spending more time with Jim and the other crew members after his first few days holed up in his quarters and on the observatory deck. He's growing more accustomed to the ship, picking things up as if he's known them all along—which he has—and reconnecting with people. Bones seems to recall never liking Spock in the past, and he still doesn't think much of him, much to Jim's relief. He's not sure he could deal with a topsy-turvy world in which Bones and Spock get along all the time. Doctor Lerner and Doctor M'Benga have been telling Jim that Bones is making good progress, especially with his medical duties, though Bones' memories of Jim remain limited at best. Also, no one has made a peep about reinstating him just yet. Jim hasn't been reinstated either, but he's kept busy with preparations for Chekov and Sulu's commendation ceremony. He still has a good number of forms waiting for him to fill out when he gets back to his quarters, but he figures it can wait until the morning. Jim strips down and heads to the bathroom, leaving a trail of clothes in his wake. He takes a sonic shower, gives the computer his highest security lock code, and all but falls into bed, pulling the sheets up over his naked body and clutching Bones' sweatshirt.

It feels as though only mere seconds have passed when Jim opens his eyes to the sight of Bones hovering above him. Bones squeezes Jim's bicep and Jim jerks, letting out a delayed gasp of shock.

"Jesus, Bones, you scared me," he says, panting faintly. "What—what's wrong?"

"I...I couldn't sleep," Bones replies. He looks bewildered, like he's seeing Jim for he first time. Jim blinks and sits up briskly.

"Wait a minute. How'd you get in here? I locked the door on the highest security setting."

Bones swallows and Jim can see the movement of his Adam's apple in the dim light of the room. "I used my CMO override code."

Jim gapes. "You remembered your override code?"

"I remembered, Jim." He reaches out and touches Jim's face with trembling fingers. "I...I remember _everything_."

"Shit," Jim barely utters before he reaches out and pulls Bones as close as he dares. Bones' strong arms wrap around Jim's shoulders and Jim can't help himself—he muffles a faint sob against Bones' shoulder, burying his face in his black T-shirt. He can feel Bones' dexterous fingers graze along his nape, Bones' lips pressing a patch of hair against his scalp. Jim can hear Bones mutter something and he practically has to wrench away to understand him.

"What, Bones?" he asks, kissing his temple. "What are you saying?"

"You're allergic to celery, tomatoes, rhubarb, kiwi, nuts, chocolate, the vaccine for the common cold—you incorrigible b- _bastard_ ," he chokes out. "The vaccine for Rinconian fever, the—"

"Fuck, Bones, Bones, Bones," Jim chants. He kisses the slope of Bones' cheekbone, the corner of his mouth, unable to get enough of him. He kicks the covers away, tangles their legs together, and presses close, shuddering as his cock slides against the fabric of Bones' shorts. "How did—what _happened_?"

"I was reading about the Narada," Bones says. "And...I started to recognize details in the history. And then I remembered the academy, and it all came back to me in this sudden rush... I remembered _you_ , Jim." Bones shakes his head, his dark hair falling over tired eyes. "Fuck, Jim... Can't believe I've been out to lunch all this time, while you just put on a brave face. Like you always do."

"Yeah, well," Jim mutters. It's hard to think with Bones' hands cradling his face, his warm breath gusting across Jim's lips. "I drank all your bourbon."

"Damn it, Jim. I need that."

"I needed it more," he croaks. "I thought you were..."

"Just off gallivanting with older men, I suppose." Bones purses his lips and kisses the bridge of Jim's nose. "You know, he had the same eyes," he murmurs. "Every time I looked at them, I felt better. It...it's like I knew."

Jim swallows thickly and drops his head forward. "Bones, I swear to all that's holy, if you ever try to take a bullet or a fucking crazy time-travel ray for me again, I'll kick your heroic ass out of an airlock." There's a quick beat before Bones starts to laugh, snickering against Jim's neck. Jim huffs and shoves him lightly. "What?!"

"Nothing, it's just...well, you sound like _me_."

Jim smiles tiredly. "Someone had to take up the mantle of the ship's cranky bastard, didn't they?"

"Suppose so, kid. Now, come on." Bones kisses Jim, a soft but firm press of lips, and then guides him back down to the pillows, pulling up the covers again. "You're exhausted. Sleep a while, huh? I just wanted to let you know."

"Best news I've heard in months," Jim murmurs, stifling a yawn. He winds a leg around Bones' thigh, tucks his nose against Bones' shoulder, and shuts his eyes, hoping this won't all have been a dream in the morning.

*

It's not a dream. Jim wakes to the solid warmth of Bones beside him and feels like throwing open the curtains of his window and shouting his happiness to the world—that is, if he had a window or curtains.

What he does have is a very noisy communicator, beeping at him from his nightstand. There are messages from Spock, alerting Jim to the fact that everyone knows Bones is in Jim's quarters. _If the doctor is experiencing a return to normal brain activity_ , one message reads, _please direct him to sickbay immediately for a full examination with Doctor M'Benga._

Bones sits up groggily beside Jim, rubbing at his eyes and kissing Jim's shoulder. It's all Jim can do not to pin him bodily to the bed.

"What's all the hubbub?" Bones mutters.

"You've got a date with M'Benga. Better go get dressed."

Bones looks Jim up and down, taking in his naked body, skin creased from the bed sheets, and golden hair sticking up in wild tufts. "You're kidding, right?" he grunts.

Jim laughs and shows him Spock's message. "'Fraid not. But if you want, I can stay here just like this until you come back."

"You'd better," Bones huffs. He kisses Jim quickly and rises from the bed.

As it turns out, notification of Bones' clean bill of health arrives before Bones does, in the form of a quick comm from M'Benga. Jim lets out a sigh of relief and exhaustion, pressing his cheek to his pillow. He reaches beneath it for the photo of Bones and his dad, but when he feels around, he can't find anything. Jim sits up and lifts one pillow, and then the other, his heart pounding when he realizes it's no longer there.

Then the doors whoosh open and Bones is there, dressed in a black long-sleeved shirt and black trousers. Jim thinks that he can't wait to see Bones in his science blues again. Bones takes in Jim's expression and holds up the photo.

"Looking for this?" he asks, smiling.

"Jesus, Bones. And here I thought I'd lost it."

"I found it after you dozed off again." Bones crosses the room and crouches on the bed, looking self-assured and completely like himself for the first time in weeks. He gestures toward the pillows. "Were you hoping the Tooth Fairy would find it?"

Jim smiles self-consciously and licks his lips. He kept it there because it's precious, he wants to say. A reminder of how tenuous everything is, how blurred the walls of time can be. Jim supposes that Bones hasn't had his memory back long enough to really process it: what it was like sharing a bed with a man long dead, sleeping next to the same ghost every night. One day, he thinks, he'll be brave enough to ask.

"Seemed like a good place for it," Jim says. He half-expects Bones to laugh at him, but Bones just nods and places it carefully on the nightstand. He touches his fingertips to George's smile before he lets it go.

"We'll find a frame for it," he says. "He took another one, too. With Sulu and Pavel."

Jim nods. "Got that one, too. You look delighted in it, as usual."

"Good to know." Bones reaches out and runs his fingers through Jim's half-spiky, half-matted hair, rubbing his thumb over Jim's hairline. Jim exhales and leans into the touch. It still doesn't seem quite real—like someone's going to take this feeling away, the careful tilt of Bones' smile as he reacquaints himself with Jim. "Thanks for waiting for me," he says. Jim laughs, shaking his head.

"Have we not firmly established that I'll always wait for you, Bones?"

"Don't be so dramatic, kid."

Bones' fingertips slide along Jim's scalp to the back of his head and then Jim lets himself be pulled into a kiss. He licks at Bones' mouth and goes dizzy with the familiar taste of him, his tongue slick and warm as it slides past Jim's lips. It's a little awkward, trying to get Bones undressed while their mouths are practically magnetized like this, but after some initial fumbling that black top comes off. Then Jim gets to work on the pants as he sucks at Bones' bottom lip.

"Jim," Bones whispers. He pulls away from the kiss and moves his mouth gradually down Jim's neck. "Love you like this."

Jim tilts his head back and wrenches Bones' fly open, thumbs the fuzzy line of hair below his navel. "Like this...?" he repeats.

"In the morning. All sleepy-eyed and warm...and your crazy hair. Missed your crazy hair."

"Of all the things to miss," Jim laughs. He helps Bones get his trousers and underwear off and sighs blissfully at the feel of bare, tanned skin sliding over his own pale body. Jim skates his hands over Bones' back, relearning the contours of him, all that broad, muscled mass weighing beautifully against him. "You wouldn't have remembered to miss me, really," Jim whispers into the crook of Bones' neck.

Bones tilts Jim's head back by his chin, lightly touches his mouth. Just like the way he touched George's photo.

"You don't know what I missed," he says.

They fuck lazily, Jim's long legs wrapped around Bones' waist and Bones thrusting slowly, shifting to find the best angle. Jim begs Bones to slow down whenever he feels himself tipping toward the edge; he wants this to last as long as possible, wants to feel the echo of Bones inside him for days. He digs his fingers into Bones' shoulders, along the sides of his back, pulling him close whenever Bones starts to move away from him.

"Jim, I'm not going anywhere," Bones whispers. He kisses the hollow of Jim's throat, reaches down to slide his fingertip along the rim of Jim's hole, where Bones' cock slides in and out. "Promise," he says gutturally, on a low moan.

"Don't, Bones, you can't—oh, please, oh, please, _please_..."

When they can't keep up the indolent pace any longer, Bones repositions himself to thrust harder and faster, Jim's legs hitched higher. It _burns_ —Jim hasn't felt this stretch in ages—but he's wild for it, his head thrown back in pleasure and his mouth open wide, his hands flush against Bones' back as if he can hold him in place forever. Jim gasps and comes in hot pulses between their stomach with Bones following quickly after, his moans low and husky against Jim's throat. It feels almost unfair when it's over, until Jim realizes that for a brief time, he's still not the captain and Bones still isn't the CMO, and they have time, blessed time. They can do this again and again.

Bones murmurs _Love you, kid_ into the fuzzy shell of Jim's ear and Jim suddenly, vividly remembers joy.

*

Jim hears from his mother on his birthday, Christmas, New Year's, and maybe two other times each year. So it's a big surprise when he she contacts Jim the day after the commendation ceremony, the vid comm coming in while he peruses photos of the event: Sulu and Chekov beaming as Pike pins medals to their uniforms; Spock, Uhura, and the rest of the crew dignified and proud as they look on; and Jim with Bones at his side, looking distinguished but slightly grumpy about being at the center of a media circus.

"Mom," Jim says in surprise, when he sees her face pop up on the screen. "Hi."

"Hi, Jim." Winona smiles but the slant of her eyebrows tells Jim that she's called for a specific reason. "I was just reading about your crew's adventure. Is it...is it all true?"

Jim opens his mouth but pauses before answering. He remembers in the reports that Chekov and Sulu met Winona, while she was serving hot plates back at the old Starlight Diner in Riverside, near the Starfleet base. Jim knows from his mother's stories that his dad was a regular there—that the main reason he enlisted in Starfleet was, in essence, to impress Winona and chase after her.

"Yeah...it's true, Mom."

Winona nods faintly and looks down. Jim can see that she has photos from the ceremony in her hands. She studies them carefully. "I remember them," she muses. "This one: Pavel Chekov. And Hikaru Sulu. They came in for breakfast one day. They were skinny as string beans." She looks up at Jim through the screen again, her mouth hanging open in quiet shock. "I... I had no idea they were from the future. From the present."

"It's confusing, I know." Jim quirks a smile. "Lucky for us, they behaved themselves."

Winona laughs. She looks at the photos again wistfully. "You know, your dad once told me why he decided to join Starfleet," she says, and Jim nods, preparing himself for the old story about chasing after the pretty waitress from the Starlight. "For one thing, he knew I was going," she continues, smirking. "And also, he said he was inspired by a man he met in Riverside: this Starfleet officer who hated the idea of space travel so much, yet he still went back when it was time for him to return to duty. George said he'd never met someone like that, who was so committed to serving for the greater good, even when he'd rather keep his feet firmly planted on Earth."

Jim feels a strange warmth blossom in his chest. The idea that Bones inspired Jim's dad to become the hero that he was— _is_ —has to be the most bizarre thing he's ever heard. And yet it makes sense. Jim knows Bones well enough that it makes perfect sense.

"I've never heard that story," he says quietly. It's as new as the photos on his nightstand.

"I suppose this would explain it," Winona says. She still looks awestruck as she peers into the screen, leaning close. She smiles and faint creases appear at the corners of her eyes. "Jim, take care of yourself, okay? I worry about you. I know you don't think I do, but I do. I worry about you every day and every night."

Jim forces a faint smile and attempts to sit up straighter in his chair. "You don't have to worry, Mom. But...I will. Thanks."

"All right. Let's talk again sooner rather than later, okay? And let me know in advance the next time your crew goes marauding into my past?"

"No surprise marauding next time. Got it." Jim laughs and nods. "Thanks for calling, Mom. It was good to hear from you."

Winona smiles knowingly and winks. "Stay out of trouble, James Leonard Kirk."

The screen goes blank just as Bones enters the room. Jim gapes up at him, disbelieving.

"Ready for dinner?" Bones asks. He gives Jim a suspicious once-over. "You look like you've seen a ghost, kid."

Jim licks his lips and nods in wonder. "There's a reason for that," he says.


End file.
